Wednesday, February 24, 2016
I don't know what to attribute it to, but my depression seems to have lifted. It has something to do with fiction reading, but I am never quite sure how this works. I do know that when I am not in the middle of a novel, life is dark, and I am dissatisfied and full of self-loathing. Yet, when the darkness descends, I cannot find a book I want to read. I plod through several first chapters and nothing catches. Like Sendak's Pierre, I don't care.
I have a friend who understands my thing about books and my sometimes inability to read even though reading is one of my life's greatest pleasures. When I saw her at Christmas she gave me Elena Ferrante's Neapolitan Novels, knowing that I was deep into not being able to read. Despite the fact that everyone - even people I know and generally agree with - loves these books, I had no interest. I knew it would be pointless to even try.
But six weeks later, on a three-hour flight home from Florida, I managed to distract myself with an Elizabeth Bowen novel that I grabbed from my mother's library on the way out the door. Though I finished it at home, I remained in thrall to the darkness. Something must have been shifting though. A few days later I began Ferrante's My Brilliant Friend, which I am still enjoying, and today I noticed that I am back to my normal.
This is what happens. I have to trick myself into reading in order to find my way back.
at 10:29 PM