“An entry from the diary of a young Charlotte Brontë recalls a stormy night and is ‘crazily compressed into nearly microscopic print.’”
Short Story Number One Thousand Three Hundred and Seventy Nine
She didn’t know what to do so she stayed in bed for a little while longer and read some of her books. And I know it might sound strange, but she really does think that the only things that keep her alive are her books. That she’d fall apart without them. That she’d fade all together.
"When I discover who I am, I’ll be free."
—Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.
Even when reading is impossible, the presence of books acquired produces such an ecstasy that the buying of more books than one can read is nothing less than the soul reaching towards infinity. We cherish books even if unread, there mere presence exudes comfort, their ready access reassurance.
"In spite of language, in spite of intelligence and intuition and sympathy, one can never really communicate anything to anybody. The essential substance of every thought and feeling remains incommunicable, locked up in the impenetrable strong-room of the individual soul and body. Our life is a sentence of perpetual solitary confinement."
- Aldous Huxley
Reading / Leyendo… imitando a Amelie Poulain
our hero, in a voice broken with sobs, tried to express his feelings to Olsufy Ivanovitch, but was too much overcome by all that he had gone through, and could not utter a word; he could only, with an expressive gesture, point meekly to his heart…
Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
The Emperor of Paris by Lars Henkel