(no subject)
Amy and Telepindil are getting all excited about the Halloween party. I volunteered to make cookies for some unknown reason. In any case, we're hoping for a good show. I'm wondering what we're going to do the whole time. It'd be fun to watch Nightmare Before Christmas, but I don't know what else. Then again, I'm not very good with parties and probably shouldn't be consulted on such matters.
izhilzha made the comment on my journal that reading Perelandra is like cleaning out her soul. I would agree with that. I've read many books of many kinds, and I've come to believe that some of them clean out my heart and soul, some of them muck it up, and some are just kinda there. The majority of literature is in one of the second two categories. There's an awful lot of stuff that doesn't do much but stir the waters of my thought a bit, maybe leave a few ideas behind (some better, some worse), but otherwise don't affect me much. Then there are books, far too many that however well-written they are, however fascinating they may be, I find afterward that they have clouded the waters. Poisons and pollutants are left behind, and they make me feel grimy. They glory in something I reject, or they delight in something I avoid. I spend too long on them and I emerge with a shiver, my lip curled and my shoulders tensed to shake off something that clings unpleasantly. Sometimes I may not even notice right away, except for the foul aftertaste in the recesses of my mood.
But the good books, they are marvellous. The good books are like fresh water, clear and cool and quenching. The good books are a feast, savory and rich. The good books can be tasted like a perfect chocolate, reveled in like sunlight, taken in like a symphony. They are an inner cleansing, and their mere reading is like scrubbing the grime off a window so that the sun shines clear.
There's a certain delight to cleaning things, whether in polishing silver till it shines like water, or pulling fresh bedsheets out of the dryer, or digging grime out of every corner of carved furniture. Reading the right kind of book is like knocking out the cobwebs of my mind, mopping the floors and washing the drapes and fluffing the pillows and opening the windows to let a little fresh air in. It makes the place truly livable again, and enjoyable.
::laughs:: I'm almost done with Perelandra.
In the plan of the Great Dance plans without number interlock, and each movement becomes in its season the breaking into flower of the whole design to which all else had been directed. Thus each is equally at the centre and none are there by being equals, but by some giving place and some by receiving it, the small things by their smallness and the great by their greatness, and all the patterns linked and looped together by the unions of a kneeling with a sceptred love. Blessed be He!
izhilzha made the comment on my journal that reading Perelandra is like cleaning out her soul. I would agree with that. I've read many books of many kinds, and I've come to believe that some of them clean out my heart and soul, some of them muck it up, and some are just kinda there. The majority of literature is in one of the second two categories. There's an awful lot of stuff that doesn't do much but stir the waters of my thought a bit, maybe leave a few ideas behind (some better, some worse), but otherwise don't affect me much. Then there are books, far too many that however well-written they are, however fascinating they may be, I find afterward that they have clouded the waters. Poisons and pollutants are left behind, and they make me feel grimy. They glory in something I reject, or they delight in something I avoid. I spend too long on them and I emerge with a shiver, my lip curled and my shoulders tensed to shake off something that clings unpleasantly. Sometimes I may not even notice right away, except for the foul aftertaste in the recesses of my mood.
But the good books, they are marvellous. The good books are like fresh water, clear and cool and quenching. The good books are a feast, savory and rich. The good books can be tasted like a perfect chocolate, reveled in like sunlight, taken in like a symphony. They are an inner cleansing, and their mere reading is like scrubbing the grime off a window so that the sun shines clear.
There's a certain delight to cleaning things, whether in polishing silver till it shines like water, or pulling fresh bedsheets out of the dryer, or digging grime out of every corner of carved furniture. Reading the right kind of book is like knocking out the cobwebs of my mind, mopping the floors and washing the drapes and fluffing the pillows and opening the windows to let a little fresh air in. It makes the place truly livable again, and enjoyable.
::laughs:: I'm almost done with Perelandra.
In the plan of the Great Dance plans without number interlock, and each movement becomes in its season the breaking into flower of the whole design to which all else had been directed. Thus each is equally at the centre and none are there by being equals, but by some giving place and some by receiving it, the small things by their smallness and the great by their greatness, and all the patterns linked and looped together by the unions of a kneeling with a sceptred love. Blessed be He!