(See? Gordon Lightfoot really /is/ the best. See yesterday's post.)
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I close the book, tears streaming down my face, then reopen it, vision blurred, sniffling slightly.
There are a few pages left of torture, of unrelenting sadness, left to consume.
Somehow, I cannot pull myself away, and the sadness envelops me; and I, enthralled, flail helplessly in the grip of emotion, compelled to finish, to read the last bit in the futile saga.
Part of me, the Romantic part, clings to some futile hope that somehow "things" - meaning, the universe - will be all right, and that a happy ending is imminent, and is going to write itself in indelible ink in the few remaining pages.
But it is not to be, and when I am through, and the sadness has been recorded, and I have been unable to stop the tide of words, I close the book, a keening desolation engulfing my being, and I sob quietly, my body wracked with grief. I sob, and it seems that with each gasp of air what was a tiny rip becomes a tear in the fabric of my soul. This continues for a few minutes, as I try to control my body, while my mind replays the climax over and over again.
Then reality intrudes as I become in desperate need of something to blow my nose with. I ignore my growing discomfort and I stroke the cover of the book longingly, still caught in the web of sorrow that was captured on the pages. But no! The web is of my own weaving, the manifestation of my own reaction to mere words on a page.
Sighing, I get up and pad to the Kleenex, and think to myself, "It's just a book. Why are you crying?" I can't explain it. I return to my chair, sit down, and run my fingers over the spine and think, "I don't want my story to end like that one." And I turn my head into the cushion and feel the dampness from where my reaction to some ink and paper and glue, bound into a story, seeped from my eyes, and I wait to be released from the spell of sadness. I wonder, "Why does anyone even LIKE that book?" and scrunch my face and hug myself.
I know I'll never read it again - its poignancy is too vivid to endure more than once. And then I look in the mirror and see my red-rimmed eyes and inflamed nose and wonder, "Was it worth it?" And part of me thinks, "Yes. You are more of a person now - you have embraced an aspect of humanity, and uncovered a facet of yourself that you never knew about before, and it has altered your world view slightly, yet permanently."
And the rest of me thinks, "No. You have enough sadness in your life without inviting more through works of fiction. This work is too close to home. It makes you remember things you want to forget, and reading things like this only causes you to regurgitate the actual unpleasantness in your life, and compare it with the events you just read about."
I vacillate between my two opinions for a moment, then shrug and decide I don't want to scrutinize my emotions anymore - they need no enhanced clarity: I am sad. I was crying. The book affected me.
This, I decide, is all I need to know.
So I put the book down on the floor and huddle into the chair and pull the blanket up to my chin and wait, rocking, for the inexplicable uprising of emotion to subside, and for life to return to "normal," knowing I will never be the same.
I close the book, tears streaming down my face, then reopen it, vision blurred, sniffling slightly.
There are a few pages left of torture, of unrelenting sadness, left to consume.
Somehow, I cannot pull myself away, and the sadness envelops me; and I, enthralled, flail helplessly in the grip of emotion, compelled to finish, to read the last bit in the futile saga.
Part of me, the Romantic part, clings to some futile hope that somehow "things" - meaning, the universe - will be all right, and that a happy ending is imminent, and is going to write itself in indelible ink in the few remaining pages.
But it is not to be, and when I am through, and the sadness has been recorded, and I have been unable to stop the tide of words, I close the book, a keening desolation engulfing my being, and I sob quietly, my body wracked with grief. I sob, and it seems that with each gasp of air what was a tiny rip becomes a tear in the fabric of my soul. This continues for a few minutes, as I try to control my body, while my mind replays the climax over and over again.
Then reality intrudes as I become in desperate need of something to blow my nose with. I ignore my growing discomfort and I stroke the cover of the book longingly, still caught in the web of sorrow that was captured on the pages. But no! The web is of my own weaving, the manifestation of my own reaction to mere words on a page.
Sighing, I get up and pad to the Kleenex, and think to myself, "It's just a book. Why are you crying?" I can't explain it. I return to my chair, sit down, and run my fingers over the spine and think, "I don't want my story to end like that one." And I turn my head into the cushion and feel the dampness from where my reaction to some ink and paper and glue, bound into a story, seeped from my eyes, and I wait to be released from the spell of sadness. I wonder, "Why does anyone even LIKE that book?" and scrunch my face and hug myself.
I know I'll never read it again - its poignancy is too vivid to endure more than once. And then I look in the mirror and see my red-rimmed eyes and inflamed nose and wonder, "Was it worth it?" And part of me thinks, "Yes. You are more of a person now - you have embraced an aspect of humanity, and uncovered a facet of yourself that you never knew about before, and it has altered your world view slightly, yet permanently."
And the rest of me thinks, "No. You have enough sadness in your life without inviting more through works of fiction. This work is too close to home. It makes you remember things you want to forget, and reading things like this only causes you to regurgitate the actual unpleasantness in your life, and compare it with the events you just read about."
I vacillate between my two opinions for a moment, then shrug and decide I don't want to scrutinize my emotions anymore - they need no enhanced clarity: I am sad. I was crying. The book affected me.
This, I decide, is all I need to know.
So I put the book down on the floor and huddle into the chair and pull the blanket up to my chin and wait, rocking, for the inexplicable uprising of emotion to subside, and for life to return to "normal," knowing I will never be the same.
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