A
very strange thing happened to me today. I decided to sort out my books
and pack some up for the charity shop. I always find sorting through
books difficult because no matter how resolute my intention it
inevitably ends with me sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by
open books, deeply engrossed in at least one of them. This time was
slightly different. I was sat, as predicted, in the midst of half open
books when one book, with no provocation or encouragement what so ever,
quite literally threw itself from the top shelf of the bookcase and
landed, face up and open in my lap.
This
book was a very old paperback. This book was just about the first
'serious' book I ever read. And there, in my lap, sat the original copy
of the book I had bought in the early 70's. I was still young and
impressionable with a mind ripe for education. This book changed the way
I think, it introduced me to my long term all time favorite author. I
have not read his work for so long. But, as I sat reading this, every
thing I felt then just came flooding back. And the strange thing is,
this particular passage is just so apt.............this is how I feel
when I try to write
''However,
the more pages I read of my handwriting, the less did I like the
manuscript. Even in my former most despondent hours it had never seemed
so futile and absurd to me as now. Everything seemed so confused and
stupid; the clearest relationships were distorted, the most obvious
forgotten, the trivial and the unimportant pushed into the foreground.
It must be written again, right from the beginning. As I continued
reading the manuscript, I had to cross out sentence after sentence, and
as I crossed them out, they crumbled on the paper, and the clear,
sloping letters separated into assorted fragments, into strokes and
points, into circles, small flowers and stars, and the pages were
covered like carpets with graceful, meaningless, ornamental designs.
Soon there was nothing more left of my text; on the other hand there was
much unused paper left for my work. I pulled myself together. I tried
to see things clearly.''
Just a small excerpt from
'The
Journey to the East', Herman Hesse, pub Panther Books 1972. (this
particular version has an introduction by Timothy Leary which is worth
reading too)
I
had forgotten the pleasure of reading Hesse. I don't think so many
people read his books now. So.... now rather than packing books up for
the charity shop I have sorted out all my old Hesse books with the
intention of re-reading ASAP.
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