every time I finish a book- every time I finally finish a book - I think about blogging. it, some kind of short clever review. I wonder why?
some part of me feels like there should be some reward or permanent change or memory or miniature revolution. that happens every time I finish a book, that every completed book is some unimaginable accomplishment. maybe it's the desire of some proof, from all those elites in pseudo-intellectuals. I've been part of, that. finishing a book again makes me more worthy, more worthy again.
or maybe I just want to create something out of it and have something that will last, something more than the fading memory of a book I consumed. something other than the truth that the subjective fleeting personal value of reading is all there was and all there should be.
I think about blogging but it turns out it's hard to sit down and write, and it turns out to be harder still to have something short cover and non-derivative to say
Even this: I'm narrating it in voice to text rather than doing my normal formatting, though I might come back later to give it a cleanup.
maybe now that I've named the reasons, and they're not very good reasons, I could just simply write a book review here for the same reason. I should read a book: for no real reason at all, and being comfortable with whatever it is I've used to fill the moment in.
This might accidentally be a book review; I'm nearly filled with "Professor Chandra pursues his bliss ", A book about middle-aged and late aged failures and fragility and philosophical rebirth, maybe. I don't know. I do know it's deeply affecting even if my blog style is mimicking the prose, as I sometimes do.
but I feel very lucky to be reading this book, and reading at all.
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