I have finally learned to emotionally detach myself from a book. The decision came after having read a particularly unpleasant and depressing book. The most annoying fact was that there was no need for it to be that gloomy at all. I guess the author had some notion that dismal writings are a fad and thus turned a reasonably pleasant enough book into a forcibly dismal fiasco: an act that not only left me depressed but irritated as well. So I became weary of all books based on futuristic dysfunctional societies and made it a point not to form any kind of emotional attachment to them. Result is that I no longer get depressed.
But on the other hand the fun from book reading has departed. All my life I have lived amongst the characters on the pages of the book, felt what they felt, thought what they thought and did as they did. I have always been a part of the book, never someone viewing the events from outside as they unfold on the pages. Now with my new reading formula in place, a book is nothing more than words written on a two dimensional piece of paper. Leads me to wonder, am I doing the right thing?
I have been to Bukhara and Samarkand without having set foot in those places. I have lived though medieval Europe despite having been born several hundred years too late. Some books have grown closer to my heart than my most prized possessions. Can I live with never feeling like that for any piece of written work again? The way I see it, if you can’t feel it, you can’t love it and if you don’t love it you can never cherish it.
Can I risk never being able to cherish another book?
There is no end to the wonders of a good book. And yet, the damage done by a bad one is just as devastating. It is like biting into a bad almond. Everything you taste afterwards tastes bitter. So am I to give up all my moments of magical brilliance just so that I can save myself from suffering the emotional torture induced by below average writings.
Alas! that is the question to which I have not yet found an answer.