I suppose we writers are cruel people. The dead do not care. It is the living who might be spared if we could quarry the message which lies buried in the heart of all human experience.
Reading can be such a solitary, lonely activity, but sometimes, when a book strikes me at the right moment, in the right place, I feel more connected to humanity than at any other time in my life.
It’s like someone’s smiling over my shoulder, or holding my hand, or kissing my forehead. The comfort in gesture, in love and affection. In community. In hope.
That’s what reading feels like, and it makes me less afraid.
To breathe in
I feel it
In the dark
And judges me
I sing to
Drown it out.
I speak to
Do not destroy
And those who
Books may not change our suffering, books may not protect us from evil, books may not tell us what is good or what is beautiful, and they will certainly not shield us from the common fate of the grave. But books grant us myriad possibilities: the possibility of change, the possibility of illumination.