close
Haven't been reading and finishing an English novel for leisure properly for almost...years, I think. And tonight, I finally finished Lawrence Block's 'Even the wicked' in its original language. I got this book from a charity shop way back when I still lived in 18 Ballantyne Drive in Colchester, but hardly touched it for the time being. However, you always did something you normally would not do when there is other more important thing waiting to be done. No doubt, this time is the same old story. In other words, the book is a distraction form my study and in turns, I now in the same old shit mood of a mixture of guilt and depression again, due to the bloody annoying repetition of history.
People are suppose to grow wiser, to get mature and all that craps. But form time to time I sincerely resent such idea and social norm. Why we are pushed to be responsible adults? There are endless things one needs to worry for being a responsible, mature adult, and that sucks. Worry about money, worry about how where is the job, worry about how to cover your own arse if something dreadful happens, worry about growing old alone, worry about building a helpful social network, worry about this and that. But really, what's the point? You can try to cover every angle you like, but eventually shit things happen when you least expected. A friend of mine died of cancer this year. I cried when I heard the fucking news. I still feeling rather emotional every time I thought about it. People can just be gone in a second and there is simply nothing you can do about it. We only treasure things when we know we are going to loss them, or, at that moment, we already lost. They always say nothing matters but your health and your happiness. But that is just lots of craps, isn't it? If the health and happiness are the only things we need to hold onto, we would not be that miserable old sods as we are now. Humans are just a bunch of little fucking self-contradicting hypercritics, and this statement sums up how awful and moody is I am now.
Back to the book. I haven't been able to read a proper book in English since I came to England. It got slightly better when I starting to find the pleasure of reading play texts, but such delight was never extend to the honour of a whole book. Nevertheless, I still brought few mysteries to decorate my bookshelf during this sad, sad period of losing my excitement on purely reading for reading's sake. Similar situation had happened to me back in my last year or so at the university in Taiwan. There was a strangely long time when I couldn't read any other types of books for leisure except detective stories. Moreover, I was mentally challenged to begin to read a new mystery writer, if I haven't finished the current one. Talk about compulsion and stubbornness in Virgo. Apparently they are embedded in my reading disorder. Nevertheless, this is somehow easily understood for my disability of reading a good English novel, simply because that I am already exhausted from my assigned academic reading and thus lost my appetite for other readings that involves long sentences. Such situation is not really a trouble for me. It is only that I feel a bit melancholic when I could not recall the last time I read a book for fun.
It brings the matter to a different level when you are reading something that is not your mother language. A certain sense of detachment and disruption somehow stole away the pleasure and emotions that you ever feel for the works that you like. It is the same character, and in this occasion, the same story (ignoring the depressing loss in translation issue here), but the once-familiar words become somehow indifferent due to the presentation in their originality.
I am jumping back and forth between my melancholies because, 'as mentioned above' blah blah, I am in my periodical emotional hell again. My worries, anxieties, self-imposed reflections, which never made me any wiser and answer, the emotional shithole, which always exist there, that always make me feel like to kill myself and angry with the world. Some people may laughing at my trivial thinking and thought some other things are more worthy to worry about. However, I question their questioning. When is 'the importance of being idle' rendered unimportant? I tried to picture what was in van Goth's mind when he painted those astonishing-yet-chaotic paintings, when I saw them in the Musee d'Orsay. It was difficult to envisage his vision of the world and the consequent feelings, but occasionally I feel that I can truly understand how that drove him into his own prison of craziness. From time to time, we applaud the moments of truth that expressed in songs, speeches and acts. However, in my cynical thinking at present, I sense an urge of distain for they seem to be nothing and nothing at all. Nevertheless, it might plainly be a view towards myself: my blood is shouting rebellion, but my bone is distinctly institutionalized and domesticated. What a wuss.
全站熱搜
留言列表
On the Stage (2)
