Well, I am scared of a lot of things. But I have only few Primal fears, and I am reminded of one of those fears far too often since I turned forty.
It may sound ludicrous to some, but I am sure fervent readers would identify with me and my Primal fear. I know I won't be able to read all the books that have ever been written. But I want to be able to read at least all the books and authors that I am interested in, and this list keeps getting bigger, instead of shorter.
Like for example, I was so happy when I got the "Letters to a young poet" book which was on my To-Read list for a very long time. But then this awesome Mr.Rainer M. Rilke recommends this other great author Jens Peter Jacobsen and his masterpiece Niels Lyhne and says that if you read this, a world will come over you, the happiness, the abundance, and the incomprehensible immensity of a world ... Hmmm. You see, how my list keeps growing !
And I don't know how to explain this fear, I actually feel the tremble in my belly, fearing that I should be able to do justice to my to-Read list, in order to fulfil my life's purpose. I feel it as one of my life's duties to be able to take in this wealth of knowledge that these learned men and women of past have left for me.
See this painfully beautiful passage from Niels Lyhne :
"Happy is the person who, in his grief, when one of his loved ones is gone, can weep all his tears at the emptiness, abandonment, and loss; for they are heavier, more bitter tears that must atone for what bygone days have seen of lack of love for the one who is now dead, toward whom no offense can be expiated again. For now they come back: not only the harsh words, meticulously poisoned replies, intolerant censure, and thoughtless anger, but also caustic thoughts that were never voiced, hasty judgments that raced through your mind, lonely shrugs of the shoulder and unseen smiles, full of scorn and impatience; they all come back like evil arrows and sink their shafts deep in your own breast, their shafts blunt because the points have broken off in the heart that is no more. It is no more, there is nothing you can make good again, nothing. Now there is plenty of love in your heart, but now it is too late; go on up to the cold grave with your full heart! Can you get any closer? Plant flowers and weave wreaths—do you get any closer?"
It may sound ludicrous to some, but I am sure fervent readers would identify with me and my Primal fear. I know I won't be able to read all the books that have ever been written. But I want to be able to read at least all the books and authors that I am interested in, and this list keeps getting bigger, instead of shorter.
Like for example, I was so happy when I got the "Letters to a young poet" book which was on my To-Read list for a very long time. But then this awesome Mr.Rainer M. Rilke recommends this other great author Jens Peter Jacobsen and his masterpiece Niels Lyhne and says that if you read this, a world will come over you, the happiness, the abundance, and the incomprehensible immensity of a world ... Hmmm. You see, how my list keeps growing !
And I don't know how to explain this fear, I actually feel the tremble in my belly, fearing that I should be able to do justice to my to-Read list, in order to fulfil my life's purpose. I feel it as one of my life's duties to be able to take in this wealth of knowledge that these learned men and women of past have left for me.
See this painfully beautiful passage from Niels Lyhne :
"Happy is the person who, in his grief, when one of his loved ones is gone, can weep all his tears at the emptiness, abandonment, and loss; for they are heavier, more bitter tears that must atone for what bygone days have seen of lack of love for the one who is now dead, toward whom no offense can be expiated again. For now they come back: not only the harsh words, meticulously poisoned replies, intolerant censure, and thoughtless anger, but also caustic thoughts that were never voiced, hasty judgments that raced through your mind, lonely shrugs of the shoulder and unseen smiles, full of scorn and impatience; they all come back like evil arrows and sink their shafts deep in your own breast, their shafts blunt because the points have broken off in the heart that is no more. It is no more, there is nothing you can make good again, nothing. Now there is plenty of love in your heart, but now it is too late; go on up to the cold grave with your full heart! Can you get any closer? Plant flowers and weave wreaths—do you get any closer?"
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