Earlier this week, my father found me sitting by the poker table in the basement, intently immersed in a book, my nose close to touching the paper. Before my dad told me of his errand on seeing me, the first question that came from his mouth was, "Do you ever stop reading?" I stared up, an amused yet astonished look on my face as I replied, "No, I don't." The coincidence in this is that he wanted to tell me that he found two old books in the garage of which he was going to give me to add to my library. To my satisfaction, I was given an ancient copy of "The Epic of Gilgamesh" and an old Oxford Latin book (I suppose I have a legitimate reason now to teach myself the lost language).
I'm not ashamed of my being bookish. I find it to be worth my while to educate the mind always, even if it means reading a children's novel. I've come to the conclusion that we read because we're eager to learn, to broaden the scope of our brains. We seek to untie the knotted lies that society has told us about humanity.
I've just recently finished "Surprised by Joy" by C.S. Lewis and "Henry IV Part 1" by Shakespeare. I'm glad to say that I've been able to move on to "Henry IV Part 2" and it's already got my senses tingling with anticipation. I pity the souls of those who have no interest or respect towards Shakespeare, one of the greatest writers of history. I've met a few people in the writing field who don't like Shakespeare because they can't understand him. Again, I will say 'pity' for them. Just because they cannot understand him does not make him worthless. He understood humanity, and had one of the most creative ways of portraying it. Whenever I read his words out loud, I cannot help but fall in love with the story. I fear we've lost that beauty, that elegance in our writings today. There is no second glance at the old english; and half the time, it is because people 'cannot understand it.' Pity. Pity, pity, pity. I support my avid words with the words of Lewis in the novel that I just finished. "Liking an author may be as involuntary and improbable as falling in love." Yes, I've fallen in love with Shakespeare, as well as Lewis, both of whom I have never known in life. I wish I had. We would of had so much to say.
Speaking of similarities, I have found myself confronted with something of which I cannot shake off. Reading Lewis' book was a new journey for me. Granted, everytime I read anything by him, I am struck with the way in which he seems to address my very soul, as though he knew me. After reading "Surprised by Joy", I found myself metaphorically lifeless on the floor. I have become certain that Jack and I are long-lost relatives. Of course, I cannot prove this in any way (I don't have any map of my family tree), but I'm certain others can relate to the feeling. It's like admiring a musician, then finding out that person likes many of the things that you do as well. Time and space somehow pull the two together, though they have never met each other.
That is me and Lewis. I'll speak as a madman, and say that the spirit of this author is haunting me in my own home. I happen to be obsessed (strangely enough) with Norse mythology; then I find out that specific mythology was one of Lewis' passions, one of his first obsessions in the story world. Ironic? Well, it gets better. How does it happen to be that I am in the midst of reading Henry IV and Lewis uses the character Falstaff as an example to something he was explaining? There is too much that is relateable between this man and I.
Also, I've found that the place in his mind that he resided in during his youth is where I happen to be in as well. I'm sure all who read this will instantly interrupt with, "Well, everyone can relate to somebody of popularity somehow. You're no different." I entirely agree with this statement, but I must be boastful and ask a question in return. Have you ever related to someone so much, so keenly, that you were certain that you may be the new embodiment of their soul? That's how I've felt. I've recently teased the idea to my friends that I am the female version of C.S. Lewis that is still living. It may be a jest when I crack the joke then, but I come home and find myself seriously pondering the idea. Is it possible that two people who never knew each other in life can be so much the same person?
I realize that all these statements may come to be very priggish of me (oh damn! another similarity between Jack and I!), but I don't regret the fact that I am a selfish prig. Who isn't? We've all got our ideas, and we all live according to their boundaries.....but I fear this post will be too long for anyone to have the patience to read all in one sitting. Those are my thoughts of the day....at least a few. I could never write everything in my head. If I did, it would be considered the never-ending novel. It would go on...forever....
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