"The human soul is a house of many fantastic chambers. But for most of us, as we go our way easily through life, the most curious of those chambers are the least frequented. Bluebeard's closet we would not unriddle if we could; blank doors we gape at in passing with a little wonder, perhaps, but with more relief that we, who are safe in our everydayness, will never be called upon to turn the key in the lock and face the incredible things within.
There are almighty things behind those doors. There is beauty so intense that it burns on the mind like fiery waters; much agony, hideous fear and many torments; and after the torments are past, a certain sense that seems to its wounded possessors priceless, a sense and memory of impossible things endured.
Not easily nor often do the doors swing open- they will not budge for the catchwords of ordinary speech. It is only the elemental forces of the naked and crying soul that will suffice to move them- the elemental powers, fear, hunger, love and hate. And this is just- and it is just that the doors should open seldom-
for the man upon whom they have opened even for an instant will never be the same again."
-Benet from Elementals
I found this book, Stories for Men just around the square at a little antique stored called Mardee's. I got the book for my brother, Matt, as well as Fathers and Sons. And being surrounded by old, worn, dusty books to me is like finding a room full of little beating hearts, and I can't help but want to peek into each one, hoping I'll find something in them that's familiar.
I got Anna Karenina, Winter's Tales, and Essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson for myself. I read some Emerson in a Romanticism class I had in Auburn, but the reading schedule and academic robotic like essays I was writing kind of took the joy out of it, so I'm excited to get to read a whole bunch of essays without a teacher staring at me, and waiting for me to say something profound....I don't really think I say many profound things, and if I do, I assure you it was accidental.
Growing up, I always hoped that when walking through the woods across the street from my house or down behind Kimberly Carnes' house I would find something amazing. I'm not sure what: the remains of some ancient civilization, an old shoe, a love letter, someone's secret.
I searched under the oak leaves and rotten stumps, I looked in the ditches and in the tunnels under the streets, I looked down the hills, and down holes, I looked behind the vines and the briers and only found more vines and more briers. There were no secrets to be found. And then one day, I opened a book and I found ancient civilizations, and old worn shoes left behind by a man named Goriot, or maybe Godot, and I found love letters written to young girls with warm cheeks or from old women with powdered wrinkles; love letters from poor men, rich men, handsome men, cowardly men, sad men, and I found secrets that belonged to me hidden in pages and pages, but that also belonged to someone else. My secrets were their secrets. And I fell in love with the written word.
To those who don't read, books are disposable, good for burning, good for wadding. Maybe they never saw themselves behind the covers. Maybe they didn't catch a glimpse at all there was to be offered in the pages: Solace, horror, love, adventure, wonder, jealousy, lostness, sleepy dreamers.
Maybe I look too much into them. But it's like watching someone stand before a crowd, and yell out their deepest thoughts and secrets, to let the blood gush from their hearts, with no concern for the listener's shiny, clean shoes- no concern for ruining someone else with their honesty- and you just can't look away. No matter how ugly, how heart wrenching, or how broken, you can't leave them standing there alone. You can't walk away. Because while they yell out there mistakes and flaws and beautiful memories, your reminded of your mistakes, your flaws, your beautiful memories, and you want to stay a little longer in their wake, because though it is getting bigger, and there is the fear of it all crashing down and you drowning, drowning doesn't seem as terrible as being alone.
A novel may be fiction, but the emotion, the stories, the characters, came from somewhere real, and while we pick up novels imagining that they are just paper, I can't help but believe that the author had to have bled just a little while writing it. They are that person standing before a crowd, yelling, at the top of their lungs, and I guess I'm one of those who steps forward, shiny shoes and all.
I think I'm just drawn to honesty; I'm drawn to the stories of others. I want to know them, I want to understand them, I want to search them out. Reading allows me to be a people watcher, and instead of the people knowing I'm watching them- allowing them to edit their words and movements- I see all the human, all the flaws, all the quarks, all the things in them that I know I, myself, have a tendency to hide.
Maybe books are just "blank doors we gape at in passing with a little wonder, perhaps, but with more relief that we, who are safe in our everydayness, will never be called upon to turn the key in the lock and face the incredible things within."
