Reading Spaces
I am in the midst of reading a truly beautiful book, and it made me feel like writing. But I am not sure what is there to write about. Except perhaps truly beautiful writing. After I finish reading a book that touches me in a complete way, where it imbues me with its grace, the direction of experience that I have been, but have failed to lock down into words or a photograph or a tune, somehow reminded and reawakened, the shifting shaping of time like a little dance, brand new and sparkling, for a moment, I become the book. Thoughts come out of my being dressed with the magical mannerisms that I have become accustomed to whilst disappearing within the story. To read a truly beautiful book transforms me into a truly beautiful person, just for a moment.
The sandstorm I am now playing with is a book written by Banana Yoshimoto, Kitchen. And no, I do not think she writes like this blog posting. That is just my sense and my feeling, which is always, funnily and sometimes sadly, over-exagerated (I can never spell that word). I like her lightness, disarming naivity, and simple wisdoms that walks quitely by like a smiling stranger, almost lost if I'm not paying attention.
"Words, too explicit, always cast a shadow over that faint glow."
"Was that what it means to be an adult, to live wth ugly ambiguities?"
I am now stupidly wondering if all Japanese writings are like that. Recently begun reading Haruki Murakami as well. I thought I have read Sputnik Sweetheart several years ago, but maybe it is my egotistical mind playing tricks on me (not wanting to be left out in the swell of Must-Reads-if-you're-anybody-with-half-an-"intellectual"-brain). Either way, it was really re-moving reading it again. For just a moment, after that truly beautiful writing, I felt completely alienated, isolated, alone, and sewn into the universe. Like the tarot card I have, of being connected to the stars, so far away, insignificant and indistinguishable. But utterly, utterly, beautiful. Painfully beautiful.
You see now how I can never be a good writer. I overused certain words, and I am unsure where my perspectives lie, if I even had any that has not already been conquered and revanquished.
At least there are always good books to be relied on!
A thought came to me when I was driving. The landscapes that affect experential existence. How that is suffused within writings. Yoshimoto and Murakami felt.. (I know this is cheesy) zen. c5 likes Russian writers for the straight delivery of black humour (I think), and I used to love the elaborate embroidery of writers from India. Flash introduced me to the magic surrealisms of writings located in South and Latin America. What of Malaysian writers? Always slightly sweaty, with colours and soundscapes from romanticised pasts refracted? The oppressive green of trees and concrete buildings, over-bright, silently haunted by a cacophony culturally clashing demons?
I haven't read enough to know. I want to read enough to know, I think. Perhaps I should be organised about this, and make a resolution to plan my reading list according to terra cognita next year. January will be a feast of Malaysians! Recommendations welcomed.
The sandstorm I am now playing with is a book written by Banana Yoshimoto, Kitchen. And no, I do not think she writes like this blog posting. That is just my sense and my feeling, which is always, funnily and sometimes sadly, over-exagerated (I can never spell that word). I like her lightness, disarming naivity, and simple wisdoms that walks quitely by like a smiling stranger, almost lost if I'm not paying attention.
"Words, too explicit, always cast a shadow over that faint glow."
"Was that what it means to be an adult, to live wth ugly ambiguities?"
I am now stupidly wondering if all Japanese writings are like that. Recently begun reading Haruki Murakami as well. I thought I have read Sputnik Sweetheart several years ago, but maybe it is my egotistical mind playing tricks on me (not wanting to be left out in the swell of Must-Reads-if-you're-anybody-with-half-an-"intellectual"-brain). Either way, it was really re-moving reading it again. For just a moment, after that truly beautiful writing, I felt completely alienated, isolated, alone, and sewn into the universe. Like the tarot card I have, of being connected to the stars, so far away, insignificant and indistinguishable. But utterly, utterly, beautiful. Painfully beautiful.
You see now how I can never be a good writer. I overused certain words, and I am unsure where my perspectives lie, if I even had any that has not already been conquered and revanquished.
At least there are always good books to be relied on!
A thought came to me when I was driving. The landscapes that affect experential existence. How that is suffused within writings. Yoshimoto and Murakami felt.. (I know this is cheesy) zen. c5 likes Russian writers for the straight delivery of black humour (I think), and I used to love the elaborate embroidery of writers from India. Flash introduced me to the magic surrealisms of writings located in South and Latin America. What of Malaysian writers? Always slightly sweaty, with colours and soundscapes from romanticised pasts refracted? The oppressive green of trees and concrete buildings, over-bright, silently haunted by a cacophony culturally clashing demons?
I haven't read enough to know. I want to read enough to know, I think. Perhaps I should be organised about this, and make a resolution to plan my reading list according to terra cognita next year. January will be a feast of Malaysians! Recommendations welcomed.