I found it!
The simple truth behind books.
The discovery, of course, came in reading.
The particular book doesn’t matter.
Lukaš told me once he was going to read books only when he’d grown old.
I admire his choice: life over fiction.
I wish I had chosen the same but my choice was either predetermined or made too early.
(When I was little I was in the library all the time and my elder sister worried something was wrong with me.)
(I was so thirsty for books that the librarian would pull away from my hands the inappropriate ones which to me were just the next on the row.)
What’s the point of reading?
I began to ask myself at the same time I began to grasp my existential problems.
How can books help me? They are not life.
Art imitates life.
What a stupid thought!
Today a random book “told” me:
Books are conversations with people we’d otherwise have never met.
Hearing them.
(Possibly also) listening to them.
The most perfect conversation.
Because we can pause it, go back to it… because we have time to think while talking.
Books are not truth.
They’re an opinion. A free one. Or at a good price. Never too expensive.
They’re a touch upon someone else’s soul. The night when the soul blossoms. That’s why they’re priceless.
They are not life
just (different types of) life instructions.
Books are people.
Let them come into your life. Or choose them yourselves.
By their looks or not.
In fact…
it doesn’t matter.
Just listen to them till the end. Or till the middle.
Learn something from them
with the proviso that truth isn’t absolute.
Or just say in the very beginning:
“Oh.
I’m sorry.”
Whatever you do
one thing’s for sure.
Books.
Have.
A purpose.
a blog about (making sense of) life 