(no subject)
Ah, so I'm alone again. And how does it feel?
the same.
I finished Jane Eyre last night. I think reading more than half of it over the weekend had me so absorbed and within it's grasp that once it was over, I felt abandoned. I always feel like that when I read a book so quickly. It's like you live a life and then when it's over you realize that life wasn't yours.
I remember there was a time, probably over summer, when Tia would ask me what was going on in my life, and I would reply, nothing, because the truth was that my life consisted of Mrs. Dalloways and Lestats and Briony's.
Waking up from the books makes me feel very isolated, but isn't it what I asked for? I think coming from Jane Eyre where ideas and beliefs were held so strongly, and words were spoken so intelligently, and being slammed into my high school setting was unsettling, to say the least. I felt so sad today, but I couldn't really let that feeling take over. I had it so often last year. It's a sort of detachment from everything.
But then again, I can't fool myself into being a pompous, depressed bitch. Jonathan Franzen said something in his Harpers essay which has stuck in my mind. He said:
"Depression presents itself as a realism regarding the rottenness of your life in particular. But the realism is merely a mask for depression's actual essence, which is an overwhelming estrangement from humanity. The more persuaded you are of your unique access to rottenness, the more afraid you become of engaging with the world; and the less you engage with the world, the more perfidiously happy-faced the rest of humanity seems for continuing to engage with it.
Writers and readers have always been prone to this estrangement. Communion with the virtual community of print requires solitude, after all. But the estrangement becomes much more profound, urgent, and dangerous when that virtual community is no longer densely populated and heavily trafficked; when the saving continuity of literature itself is under electronic and academic assault..."
I guess I just want someone to listen to me. But even then, would they understand me? And could I find someone who I'd like to have listen, or to listen to? Oh, I think even more I'd want someone to listen to- someone who didn't repeat the same old thoughts and mindless convictions as everyone else.
I wish I had a Mr. Rochester.
the same.
I finished Jane Eyre last night. I think reading more than half of it over the weekend had me so absorbed and within it's grasp that once it was over, I felt abandoned. I always feel like that when I read a book so quickly. It's like you live a life and then when it's over you realize that life wasn't yours.
I remember there was a time, probably over summer, when Tia would ask me what was going on in my life, and I would reply, nothing, because the truth was that my life consisted of Mrs. Dalloways and Lestats and Briony's.
Waking up from the books makes me feel very isolated, but isn't it what I asked for? I think coming from Jane Eyre where ideas and beliefs were held so strongly, and words were spoken so intelligently, and being slammed into my high school setting was unsettling, to say the least. I felt so sad today, but I couldn't really let that feeling take over. I had it so often last year. It's a sort of detachment from everything.
But then again, I can't fool myself into being a pompous, depressed bitch. Jonathan Franzen said something in his Harpers essay which has stuck in my mind. He said:
"Depression presents itself as a realism regarding the rottenness of your life in particular. But the realism is merely a mask for depression's actual essence, which is an overwhelming estrangement from humanity. The more persuaded you are of your unique access to rottenness, the more afraid you become of engaging with the world; and the less you engage with the world, the more perfidiously happy-faced the rest of humanity seems for continuing to engage with it.
Writers and readers have always been prone to this estrangement. Communion with the virtual community of print requires solitude, after all. But the estrangement becomes much more profound, urgent, and dangerous when that virtual community is no longer densely populated and heavily trafficked; when the saving continuity of literature itself is under electronic and academic assault..."
I guess I just want someone to listen to me. But even then, would they understand me? And could I find someone who I'd like to have listen, or to listen to? Oh, I think even more I'd want someone to listen to- someone who didn't repeat the same old thoughts and mindless convictions as everyone else.
I wish I had a Mr. Rochester.