For several days post-reading, my mind felt like it had been deadlocked, quiescent (not in a wholly positive way), crippled by the words and language and flow and word/language-flow of the book. The night I finished reading the book I called up my boyfriend in tears, raving about our human capability to hurt each other. I hated that relationships were dysfunctional, that it seemed that nobody cared for each other in a way that was right anymore (let me be the first to admit it: my sense of ‘right’ only barely overlaps with the idea of individual freedom); I hated that people were so stupid as to be unable to care for others more than they cared for their important little selves.
If I could, I’d write a book about contented people. Not people trying and failing to do the ‘right’ thing, but people who tried and succeeded and found solace in going through the ordeal of difficult feelings, difficult situations, smelly life shit in general, and resurfacing on the other side. I’d write a book that would wrangle the reader’s emotions in such a way that would leave them empowered, hopeful and glad, rather than angry, irritated and disgusted.
God, I love this book. I’d recommend it to anybody.. Do I not sound like it?