Labels make a complex world simpler.
I saw behind my book, the sun fall behind the ocean, and surmised then in that clear moment that the correct tuition had my gaze.
I can salvage the idle hours, but O if I waver or am infirm get me at once to my books; my dividing strength, my secret door to that garden of alchemy where lavishing over Her voluble blooms, rather the reader grows. Nutritive to my temper and interests must there be a story on my person or at my bedside at any moment. It is the lamp that dims unnecessaries, a fire by which the intellect is warmed. Where in one simple afternoon I can delight freely in the childlike fervency of my Nature by the prospects of a first page, then settle into a tired wisdom, at the last.
Can it not be said, that only he can meet calm and relief who is storm-worn and standing and who has not stumbled thus his respiring? Who has allowed his balance to find him by at last keeping still though else nothing is, and having flung to the gusts for the valley below his charge and strain of striving vain. By not gripped by the incertitude of factual things such as winds and aims, they ceased to fatigue him and fell away into vanishment the more he fought them not. He has seen his depths and caring less for heights is happy if he can burn the day sitting on the adret of his Himalaya, to finish a good book and gathering there in himself like the snow and sunlight around him, and passing unhindered through his own being like the tide of ordinance.
Methinks, of all the rains that fall, the best fall wholehearted and constant. That disregard ambitions hold any for the week it washes, and where no assumption of relent or sun is obvious through the cloudburst. Only then do we feel permitted unreservedly, to stall our cheap and demeaning enterprising into the world, and confine ourselves to the warmer, more civil duties of the self, and homestead. It is perhaps the finest time to lose in a good book.
I broke my adolescence over Maggie Cassidy this past weekend, and until some days, will I be enough to stand and heed the oceans brotherly call, oft where go the great detached on Icarian odysseys of forgetting.
It is a good book that makes me read myself after, and gifts a keepsake of genial sameness with it, when putting it down becomes a sentimental exchange, that though you must walk away, you cannot help but look back for, – like a time, a place, or lover past that sits forever in the fairer shade of memory. Every little paper-backed Universe on the bookshelf is an existence over, with fresh astoundments and none replaced as though born backwards going in, and the space between dawns are but a whelm of sleep.