Why I like/want to bookworm
Literature and the internet: it seems a really strange combination. Instead of reading or writing myself (as in really writing: what i do on my blog is just putting words together in a consecutive string, so that it might end up as something comprehensable => forget this sentence by the way), I just blog about reading. That’s like making up recipes without actually cooking. Then again, making up things without doing them can be a great way of spending your life.
I know that this blog wasn’t supposed to talk about me, but I can’t help myself. sometimes there is this small side of me that wannts to broaden the perspective of everyone reading this. I myself am someone who believes in literature as a form of love. I believe well-written novels can be Gods, but then gods that have no clue about anything. Books are completely useless artefacts, but can have such divine characteristics, that i can do nothing but worship them.
I know this all sounds like amazingly boring bollocks or new age crap, but I don’t care. Probably because I’ve got this really stronge force in me saying that I’m someone who’ll be a writer (not want to be, just will be). It’s part of my religion, and even though there are no specific signs pointing to the fact that i’ll ever publish something, I can not help myself from believing that writing is the thing i’m destined for.
Last weekend, i had a conversation with a guy i don’t really know, but with whom i got in touch because he knew a friend of mine, and was looking for someone who could correct his book. He had written a diary in English, and I had to check for spelling errors. I mentioned this before i guess, and I won’t tell more about that book, but during the conversation we had, I noticed he had this same fire inside of him. Not that we were the same (no, he had different visions about writing and life than i had), but there still was still really strange feeling of finally meeting someone who just understood a little bit of all the things that haunt me 24 hours a day. How everything is literature, and how words are always wrong, but that that just is the fascinating thing about it.
Well, anyways, i’m probably boring the hell out of you guys, but i just wanted to share these shallow, trivial thoughts with you. Tomorrow it’s all about music again.
PS: I wanted to write stuff about Kafka, because I mention him so often in the other books I review, but fact is that, though i have his collected work next to my bed, I haven’t read that much of him. I’ve read the Trial of course, and a few short stories, but I think his person fascinates me more than his writings. Why? Because it’s obvious that he too felt this extremely powerful urge to write.
I’m by the way gonna read Knut Hamsun’s hunger now. and really looking forward to it. (Right now, the urge to write tingles throughout my whole body…)