If I write such good analysis of fiction, fictional characters, their relationships, families, their 'tragic flaws' and characteristics... then why can't I come up with a good analysis of myself, my life, my relationships and my feelings?
I've always enjoyed writing about literature, in school it was one of the first true accomplishments I had. I reviewed Gogol's short story and I got a perfect grade for it.
As I got older, the books got more complicated and my passion for writing about them deepened. It was no longer listing metaphors and what-not. It was about delving into the head of the author and the heads of the characters.
All kinds of relationships were unveiled before me, relationships I could never experience, settings I would never be part of, and yet I enjoyed them a lot more than my own life.
My own life seems to have become quite boring and pointless. Or maybe it started out that way. I had a brief time in early teenage years when I actually rebelled, I thought I was worth a dime or two. But now I see that really life is minuscule. I'd rather spend it experiencing as much as possible, not necessarily first hand, but more likely through the experiences of fictional and real people.
However, reading all those books never really made me understand myself any better. Sometimes I read something or watch something and I think: this is just like me! But then I realize all books have endings, all films have "the end" written in the last scene. My life has no end, well not yet anyway. It's hard to think about my life and what different things mean in it, when other people, real or not, are much more interesting and accessible. I can never be my own therapist.
It's funny how that happens. I am so good at analysing everyone else, but when it comes to myself I am lost. In the end I just throw it all over my shoulder and think about somebody else.
Here is some of my most favorite literature ever written, in no particular order.
I've always enjoyed writing about literature, in school it was one of the first true accomplishments I had. I reviewed Gogol's short story and I got a perfect grade for it.
As I got older, the books got more complicated and my passion for writing about them deepened. It was no longer listing metaphors and what-not. It was about delving into the head of the author and the heads of the characters.
All kinds of relationships were unveiled before me, relationships I could never experience, settings I would never be part of, and yet I enjoyed them a lot more than my own life.
My own life seems to have become quite boring and pointless. Or maybe it started out that way. I had a brief time in early teenage years when I actually rebelled, I thought I was worth a dime or two. But now I see that really life is minuscule. I'd rather spend it experiencing as much as possible, not necessarily first hand, but more likely through the experiences of fictional and real people.
However, reading all those books never really made me understand myself any better. Sometimes I read something or watch something and I think: this is just like me! But then I realize all books have endings, all films have "the end" written in the last scene. My life has no end, well not yet anyway. It's hard to think about my life and what different things mean in it, when other people, real or not, are much more interesting and accessible. I can never be my own therapist.
It's funny how that happens. I am so good at analysing everyone else, but when it comes to myself I am lost. In the end I just throw it all over my shoulder and think about somebody else.
Here is some of my most favorite literature ever written, in no particular order.
