Blessed he who can figure out the pattern out of scattered pieces of experience, he who can articulate the various bits in a harmonic mosaic. In any case or in any issue, for any industry or for any field.
This morning I experienced such case of articulation. "If you are eager for adventure, come to the books", we are said, "come and you will see". But, occasionally, a great deal of people will come closer to the books -the books which are supposed to give you the thrill- and nothing will happen: no adventure, no thrill, no nothing. This morning a solid piece of wisdom articulated itself and reveal to me while the kettle was doing its job with daily abnegation: "the miracle of books is to get you look at the Thames again, but with new eyes", I process, I translate, I reckon. A few books among the mute and the tasteless majority. How many times, how many!, one is out looking for life in the stars and, unexpectedly, the wonder comes in from the old sidewalks of everyday. For those of us who know as little as we do of books, who have not look at the Thames enough, the adventure of reading is a search for new names, for new stuff and to hope for the miracle. A title and a drawing will do a lot for us -kindles, i-pads, slates won't. The search is like the adventure of the photographer or the camera-man or the beggar, who is roaming the gray streets until he finds the corner from which life looks like the paradise he always dreamed of, in the sleeplessness of the night or the yearnings of his heart. "This is so, this is so", he would say, "that's what I mean, what I feel, what I want to hear". It goes down like a balsam down the pipe, warm and soothing. All the stars above the firmament seem to get in the line once in a while.... Once in a long while, sometimes.
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
This morning I experienced such case of articulation. "If you are eager for adventure, come to the books", we are said, "come and you will see". But, occasionally, a great deal of people will come closer to the books -the books which are supposed to give you the thrill- and nothing will happen: no adventure, no thrill, no nothing. This morning a solid piece of wisdom articulated itself and reveal to me while the kettle was doing its job with daily abnegation: "the miracle of books is to get you look at the Thames again, but with new eyes", I process, I translate, I reckon. A few books among the mute and the tasteless majority. How many times, how many!, one is out looking for life in the stars and, unexpectedly, the wonder comes in from the old sidewalks of everyday. For those of us who know as little as we do of books, who have not look at the Thames enough, the adventure of reading is a search for new names, for new stuff and to hope for the miracle. A title and a drawing will do a lot for us -kindles, i-pads, slates won't. The search is like the adventure of the photographer or the camera-man or the beggar, who is roaming the gray streets until he finds the corner from which life looks like the paradise he always dreamed of, in the sleeplessness of the night or the yearnings of his heart. "This is so, this is so", he would say, "that's what I mean, what I feel, what I want to hear". It goes down like a balsam down the pipe, warm and soothing. All the stars above the firmament seem to get in the line once in a while.... Once in a long while, sometimes.
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
No comments:
Post a Comment