Being a Reader and Writer
What Nabokov Knew About Reading That We've Forgotten
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“Another way of putting it is like this: a sunset is sublime because a human cannot make one, its existence transcends human ability; meanwhile, a picture of a sunset is merely beautiful because it reflects, through human invention, a thing that no amount of human ingenuity can actually replicate in real life.”
There are many aspects of being a reader and writer that I hold dear. The great joy of words moving as I sit still. They continue to create action, drama, and tragedy. These proponents may be forever engraved on leaves. Oftentimes, better off left silent. It is in silence that my world and the world between my hands allow me to expand my understanding of life. In doing so, I gain an extra life while remaining in the one I am bound to. When blood no longer remains on the leaves, and the end of a book has come. I still hold onto the rich context instilled in me by an author who extended their life for me. So, I could continue to see the past, present, and future within myself through an intimate meditation journey.
When the new morning arrived, it was absent from sunshine. A deep ache lingered within me. Today, I seek refuge. My heart has no fixed address; it dances side to side, left to right. I craft paragraphs to swim across the ocean of blank lines, searching for a temporary home. The compelling nature of reading and writing guides me through a set of grand French doors, into a room full of mirrors. A room I will never leave, and never intend to. In this room, I’m introduced to the many reflections of history, sociology, and psychology. That will take me a lifetime to explore—the minds of writers who have entrusted paper and pressed with words. Preserving the essence of their voice, which remains my one true reason behind my enriched love of books. The home supporting the French doors is cluttered with dirty dishes. Waiting for the right time to move on.
I echo the depths from which I rise. What flash of movement did Kafka and Hemingway take to track their heart’s journey? To be a master at revealing where their heart’s resided. Yet, my inner child yearns to play today, while adult responsibilities bind me tight. To ignite passion amid the world’s chaos is my only solace. Yet, I crave security and must bear my burden. Am I foolish to trade moments for mere job security? As Clarice Lispector said, “He who is not poor in money is poor in spirit.” How I wish those words were my own! Perhaps, I should channel her spirit and seek her permission. Until I do so, I’ll meditate on her wisdom and hope for forgiveness. Death shows no mercy, yet I’m certain we’ll find common ground. Now is the time to seize every moment while death swims far away. The day seems unaware that I must depart soon. Even the dog is oblivious, racing in joyous circles over soft moss, hoping I’ll chase him until exhaustion claims us both.
Most people will go through life missing out on the valuable knowledge of our natural human ability to tell stories—from truths and lies to acting as victims to stumbling upon human faults to being stuck in a history where parliaments, presidents, and promises replaced kings. I will remain trapped in eternity. Literature is a product shaped by commentary on life’s processes, making it the closest way to experience or grasp life by living through it. It chips away at the marble of our ancient past and newly discovered self-dimensions. Carving them into new visions, just as Michelangelo did with David.
Soon, my child, we’ll move to another city; there will be no more waiting for security. Instead, we’ll waste away for pure ecstasy. From that day forward, I’ll finally save the glass precariously teetering on the porcelain edge. We’ll sing in an endless poem, reminiscent of Virgil, celebrating life’s shimmering narrative.
