Monday, June 13, 2016

Aristotle and Dante

Sometimes you fall in love with a book so fiercely, utterly, and deeply.

The words that are twinkling into your eyes and into your brain sparkle in all its glittery glory as your heart inhales and sighs. Halts and dances. Heals and bleeds. The words sweep you into the comfort of your pajamas and the familiarity of your fears. They spell out emotions you thought you were too young or too old to have. They make you feel airy. Effervescent.

You might even become a little unreasonable. You resent the fact that these are fictional characters, because you want them to be real people. You want to laugh with Ari and cry with Dante. You want to tell them to breathe in the sunshine yet soak in the rain. You want to hold them. You want to be their best friend.

You cannot come to terms with the feeling of the moment you read the last sentence in the book, because the joy it brings is immense, but the emptiness of completion is unbearable. You move into Phase Book Hangover. And now you remember how you've forgotten the experience of loss in the closing of a book.

Then you need a replacement high. You search and scour high and low to find a book just as good, because everything else will be boring. They call the writing poetic prose; you call it an intoxicating elixir.

Finally, when you're ready, you will file the memories of this book, these characters, into a little compartment in your hard drive, and call upon it whenever it rains, someone cries, or you see a face that looks like a young Aristotle or an old Dante. Then you will remember how you were once in love with a book.

Fiercely, utterly, and deeply.

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