Dear anonymous world at large,
I've been reading. I read a lot, so this is hardly news. More to the point is what I've been reading, and I tell you that I've been reading Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451; "re-reading" is really the more appropriate term. However, when I first read the book, I didn't really appreciate it. Looking at it again now, there are so many fine details and greater themes I don't remember having been there before. Bradbury's words are course at best in many parts of the book, but always descriptive. Also, there are some passages that come off as surprisingly elegant. All of these things come together to make a wonderfully thought-teasing novella. What a curious, ironic existence for a book.
In ant case, Fahrenheit 451 has started turning gears in my mind. This minor thoughts that have the melancholy feeling of knowing that you're learning a great and terrible lesson. This truly indescribable (and yet here inadequately described) thought process is awakening a thoughtfulness that I had forgotten I had and which books seem to most effectively unlocked. It's a sad existence we, ourselves, have when we learn such great messages from truly awesome books, and proceed to label what we learned as either quaint Romanticisms or too much work to bother with or think about and go about our lives. Surely, these great authors and philosophers would not appreciate their works being so easily set aside and forgotten.
I, for one, want to embrace this feeling, as sad as it may be at times. It seems such a ignorant world when people are so careless. You must, as Ghandi said it, "become the change you wish to see in the world, and so I shall try. So many books to read. Even more lessons to learn. So little time, and still a life to live out on top of that. What an interesting rush.
Sincerely yours, Sammie
Thought of the day:
How much of what we are told is as accurate and true as we would like to believe?
