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Monday, May 12, 2008
On Chesil Beach •
i had written a suitably classy-upped two paragraphs to comment on the book, but rereading gave me one of those horribly tepid feelings, of disgust. i'll be quite plain, i hope. the entire writing constantly reminded me of dissimilarities, of course i cannot but help to draw comparison, haha. one thing that struck me however was how they too had realized how chance the meeting was, and how remarkable. i'd begun to wonder if anyone else has felt this way; then the entire consciousness slipped into foolish revelation; of course. how unremarkable. but! to not appear unsophisticated in reading(that of course was not the center of the text for me) i'll go on. well. there's not much that is impersonal to say, with the sort of writing it is. but the one thing it did was keep me up and down on the flow of the words between the two protagonists, and on how their unrestraint was every bit as devastating as their silence. of course, it is a central issue to pursuing this sort of life; life with another. the thing at play here is the circumstances under which i read, which are complicated as that three hour scene in less than an inch of pages, if that is possible at all. hm. no, it is not, actually. their lives are more complicated than they themselves, it is a product of an unhappy uncommunicativeness with those whom they love. we love. whilst people speak always of treasuring our time, building up precious moments, i wonder only now if i'm doing the right thing, trying to drink in the present and be glad in the Lord, now. trying to give up living on memories; and it is working at the same time as it is not. i do not think i live on memories anymore, but i keep a face in mind, of course. gosh, i suddenly felt confessional for a moment there. anyway. i do not live on the present yet either; packing my suit back into the wardrobe i fell back onto the carpet and stared onto the mended ceiling-fault i am living each moment to the fullest. am i, then. it feels empty, maybe because i am not really, yet? it feels like i am living on nothing. how does that work? hm. i may regret saying this, or this will have no effect whatsoever, but i wish that something would irrevocably be thrust upon me and force me to make some decision that would actually mean something. in any sense at all. the book is incidentally, like bread and marmalade to me; the wholemeal which is not coarse bread and therefore obviously high-bred, but- the citrus which is sharp and tangy, as it should be, but- in its entirety something that is quite generally not a taste i appreciate. it is a somewhat complex yet distilled course of experience, yet disagrees intricately with my palate; it's quite beyond description, i'm hopelessly inapt haha. either way, in conclusion i would boldly say that the crux of the difference lay in that we were not so tightly dedicated and chaste in our thoughts and passions; we loved every part of the world with complete and combined fervor; that is how i will recall it. and because of that, any miscommunication must not be irrevocable and we must forever be just as sensitive to one another's shifts in thought and feeling, right up till the moment when we are not there to sense it. 12:14 am |