Friday, July 12, 2013


When reading, I tire of the philosophy of the godless. 

I admire the pretty sentences, sometimes. But the message conveyed, the 'meaning' is no longer lost on me. I was confused, I did not (do not still) know enough to understand that these 'principles' they moan / preach of are but borned of man's inevitable hopelessness

There are isolated gems somewhere in their meandering writings that can be taken to heart. Absolutely. Al-ghazali did mention in the ihya something about not dismissing truths (for they are self-manifest) even if they come from the mind of one in 'error'. But when forced to wade through the swamp of godlessness just to stumble over said gems, I lack the fortitude for it these days.

Oh but I do admire pretty sentences, it's just in my nature. Sometimes they just stick to my mind. E.g.
"Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away."
                                                                           The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

I probably have a thing for Nick Carraway. He's like Charles Ryder in Waugh's Brideshead. The initially seemingly naive, closet romantic, somewhat distant, verging on heartless, outsider observer. I like spectator characters. I can relate with them. They always end up tragically disillusioned. Helplessly they let themselves be enamoured by a glamorous character whom they are keenly aware of being broken / vulnerable. They hitch a ride, things are rosy and perfect for a while. Then disaster strikes and they come to full realization of these characters's flaws, how they actually willingly poison themselves. Then they leave, carrying a mark in their hearts, having sold a piece of their soul. Quietly slinking back into reality, moderate and a little older.

So human. Lovely. Yes. I like those kind of books more perhaps. They treat the characters unaplogetically but tenderly, humanely. It's got to do with the authors bottom line I guess. I can't stand Kundera. Or Sartre. Or Palahniuk (not anymore phew). Or Plath (for more personal reasons than anything perhaps). Kerouac though, he's special. He's the spectator outsider but he's really writing about himself. If he wasn't so neurotic I'd probably like On the Road a lot more.

Meh. Just give me a good ol children's paperback and I'd be contented. I'd rather read of innocence  at the moment. Besides I've got Star Wars on my mind anyway.

No comments:

Post a Comment