Wednesday, July 8. 2009
Beautiful
I went to bed early last night, around two o'clock - which is early for a night owl like me. I cuddled both my pillows, remembering very, very long long-distance trains, people stuck on ice in their cars, a city nearly four times as big as my hometown, as well as butterflies, a balloon, basketball training, a choir, rabbits and kattle, and much more. Memories already are a fine thing to dwell in. And there is a great deal more when your imagination is involved.
About cuddling pillows. My upstairs neighbour does that so passionately that he wrinkles his forehead and looks like a Romulan whenever he comes down for breakfast. His appearance makes me laugh every time. Which is a great way to begin a day, actually.
My cuddling business does not leave any prints behind, except some vague imprint in my mind provided by my imagination. It's good not to know sometimes. It is like reading a book treasuring the vague image of one of its figures whose appearance might not even be described in detail. F.e., everyone seems to know what Mr Hyde looks like, even though - as I recall - this is never actually described in the book.
It's not that we love Mr Hyde. But we have to think a great deal about him, and then we get this faint impression growing slowly but surely into something definite. How much more fulfilling if the character is likeable. We could not draw them (or could I?) but we still know somehow, and that feels fine. It's beautiful, and always will be, to read.
About cuddling pillows. My upstairs neighbour does that so passionately that he wrinkles his forehead and looks like a Romulan whenever he comes down for breakfast. His appearance makes me laugh every time. Which is a great way to begin a day, actually.
My cuddling business does not leave any prints behind, except some vague imprint in my mind provided by my imagination. It's good not to know sometimes. It is like reading a book treasuring the vague image of one of its figures whose appearance might not even be described in detail. F.e., everyone seems to know what Mr Hyde looks like, even though - as I recall - this is never actually described in the book.
It's not that we love Mr Hyde. But we have to think a great deal about him, and then we get this faint impression growing slowly but surely into something definite. How much more fulfilling if the character is likeable. We could not draw them (or could I?) but we still know somehow, and that feels fine. It's beautiful, and always will be, to read.
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