There is a specific kind of reading, one I now associate with childhood, the kind of reading where you stay up all night–damn the consequences–to finish the book.
It’s a childish kind of reading because it demands that you hand yourself over–mind, body, and soul–to the book. As we get older, and more educated, it becomes harder to turn off that constant thread of analysis and aloofness that comes with experience. What isn’t real, isn’t real, and in being constructed has the elusive meaning that high school was dedicated to teaching us to reveal.
The imagery is not there for the picture it paints or the feeling it evokes, but for some occult, Freudian reason, some deeper value is hidden between the shapes of the words. Continue reading