It's like when you read a story about someone else losing touch with his or herself, you start to question your own understanding of identity as an individual. Do you have it all together as much as you think you do? Are you able to write yourself down on a piece of paper or are you a wonderfully abstract imaginary? I walked into my living room tonight and I didn't recognize myself in it; I was a foreigner to my own homestead. I looked into the mirror and my stomach turned as though repulsed with the unfamiliarity of an intense gaze. Not a negative repulsion, a neutral one. It's been a while since I have viewed myself as a third party.
Paul Auster is a mastermind. I must read all of his books.
No comments:
Post a Comment