by Anthrobus » Thu 10 Aug 2006, 16:21:06
good topic, Aaron;
since being a teen, i engaged i ways for knowing or at least thinking about myself. It became common over the years for me to constantly watch and judge myself from outside or from some reserved consciousness that remained absolutely unmoved by the outside world and that evolved only very slow. Each conscious thougth was instantly accompanied by a bunch of reflections and metareflections about what was going on. This had the curious and detrimental effect that i was constantly wondering what an ass i was making of myself while trying to go along a way for which i was not absolutely mentally prepared, convinced and that seemed totally natural and logical for me. So, playing games in teams, flirting with girls, applying for jobs or being with people i disregarded secretly was therefore quite a tough and mostly doomed exercise. Lies and false show were impossible for me, i hat them written on my front. Hamlet was my best friend.
From the mentioned state of mind and the curiosity to understand, whats going on and to beat some path for me and my mind into the world, interests in a variety of themes developed (literature, science, people, philosophy) that yet still (having lots of friends and a family now) cluster around the question, what the heck is the reason i am here and what is the best thing to do. I was lucky to meet good friends, dive deep into other languages and cultures like yours and had long years on the university to straighten out some unsocial behaviour.
Reading means for me finding people that searched in a similar way than i did and do, maybe on different fields or in different languages. And it means the try to advance my understanding for life.
And the good writers all knew it, and they suffered it, it loomed over them, the big question. And for the others i care hardly. The good writers are the good youth-propelled poets, the angry old men (like Henry Miller and some in german you probably heard of: Brecht, Arno Schmidt, Goethe in his "Faust"), some Scifi-writers, the old philosophers, the people with deep roots (like Thoreau). People, who seem to say, how horrible and bottomless yet how interesting and infinitely rich to life. And all the true riches can be lifted out of the depths of the human mind, by some miracle.
At a hundred given moments in my life, it seems to me that i encountered by chance just the appropriate book or writer to open a new door that i needed desperately. The eagerness seemed to have waned somewhat with having a little family now. Until i found this forum where imho a bunch of well educated literate and intellectual people are sharping their intellect in engaging some of the most crucial questions for man.
The mouse, i`ve been sure for years, limps home from the site of the burning ferris wheel with a brand new, airtight plan for killing the cat.
J. D. Salinger