Look Back In...Confusion

10:06 pm

There are a lot of books that you love at first sight. Or at least I have. I open the pages and barely two pages and I'm all in the I-lurve-you mode (think: Harry Potter, To Kill A Mockingbird, Mrs. Dalloway etc). And there are books that I haven't liked straight away but have come to appreciate and even love some of them over time. I suppose I needed some maturity or even plain time to see their worth. I first noticed this when about two years ago, I was going through some personal shit, my life was stuck in a ditch and I was mad---at everybody. But I was mostly mad at myself. It was really silly, and melodramatic and immature, I know all that now, but back then I was just so angry with everyone around me for giving me such a hard time, for not having a hard time themselves and at myself for being so effing stupid! And that was when two years after reading the play Look Back In Anger by John Osborne that I realised how much sense it actually made. I'll be honest, I hadn't like it that much when I had read it for the first time. All that happened in that play was a man who was perpetually angry for God knows what reason. And then two years later it happened to me and it suddenly hit me...the sort of frustration one can feeling out of sheer nothingness. Then last year I really began appreciating poetry by T.S. Eliot. I've read a lot of his work before but The Wasteland touched my heart. I guess it's because I've been seeing a lot of things so fragmented and pretty much like an actual wasteland. My favorite lines from The Wasteland are: 

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

Off late I have begun falling in love with John Keats' poetry. I was never that much of a poetry person and especially not the biggest fan of the Romantics. Until now that I'm in love with the writings of Keats. How did I fail to see the rhythm, the beautiful flow of his poetry before? I recently read a poem by him that I had never even heard of before. It's called To Fanny and it is breathtaking. Did you know he was a merely an year older than I am right now when he died? I found that out recently too and this just made me downright sad. 25 years is way too young to die. Such a pity, I mean what with him leaving his medical practice for writing poems (good choice by the way!) and having to leave behind his fiance to go to Italy for health reasons and ultimately dying far away from her. I wish I could meet Keats and hug him; he seems like he would have needed a hug. 

I am still waiting for the day I will like The Mill On The Floss or, in fact, any of the George Elliots. I guess I need way more maturity for those!

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