So I'm reading this book . . .

This is another one from the myspace archives. This one is special to me though. I hated the book, but his section about Molly really struck me. I've often been Molly, and I've often had those looking over their shoulders return to tell me what fools they've been after I'm past caring enough to let them return. It's heartbreaking in a way I can't even explain. Not only for me, but for them. I was forced to miss out on wonderful men, but they missed out on me.

So I'm reading this book . . .
(written January 11, 2008)

. . . and I dislike it. It is Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Celine. This is my third attempt to read it. I have simply been unable to get past the first 50 pages up until now. It has taken me a good six weeks to arrive at page 199. I'm trying. I hate leaving a book unfinished once I've picked it up. Unless it is anything by John Reichy. But I digress. . .

The first 50 pages are rather amusing in their cynicism, delving into the horrors of being a soldier during WWI. After that, you feel beat over the head with his hatred of and scorn for the human race. There are many, many passages I could highlight to illustrate my point, but why bother. If you open the book and point to a random passage, you'll understand.

Arriving on page 199, I read the following:

"Molly and I avoided elaborate confessions. She knew the score. She was too sincere to say much about her grief. She knew what went on inside, in her heart, and that was enough for her. We kissed. But I didn't kiss her properly as I should have, on my knees if the truth be known. I was always partly thinking about something else at the same time, about not wasting time and tenderness, as if I wanted to keep them for something magnificent, something sublime, for later, but not for Molly and not for this particular kiss. As if life would carry away everything I longed to know about it, about life in the thick of the night, and hide it from me, while I was expending my passion in kissing Molly, and then I wouldn't have enough left, I'd have lost everything for want of strength, and life - Life, the true mistress of all real men - would have tricked me as it tricks everyone else."

For several pages, he's gone on about what a good woman Molly is and how nice she is to him and how he trusts her (something he points out that in fearful people takes the place of love). And yet, he won't let her be enough. And it makes me wonder how often we all do it. Beautiful things happen everyday. Love is something to cherish, and sometimes the best things for us are right under our noses. Yet, we turn from it, often very willingly. I know I have been guilty of that myself.

I suppose I take issue with his last line. I don't think Life tricks people into expending their passions on what they have presently. I think we trick ourselves into not fully cherishing what and who we have in our lives now. And that is how we let life slip away from us. I believe that time and tenderness spent on a person will only be given back to you. And when it is given back, it renews the tenderness you can give again. And when the "inside" is focused on, love grows. And where there is love, there is more life than anyone could hope to find elsewhere. So, why bother looking over your shoulder? Just look under your nose.