I'm reading this excellent book that my brother suggested I read called "Siddhartha" by Hermann Hesse. It's a novel about a man who is searching for enlightenment (a final blessed state marked by the absence of desire or suffering). I haven't finished it yet, but I'm up to the part where he realizes that true enlightenment comes from within one's own Self. That view completely illustrates what I've been thinking lately. That all the power I need to gain is already inside me, it can't be learned. Knowledge can be learned, but not enlightenment and power.

I don't think I could possibly exist without books. Words are as important to me as oxygen, and I don't think I am more obsessed with one than the other.

My ex-boyfriend never read. Never. Unless it was for school. I should've broken up with him for that reason alone. But right before we broke up I introduced him to the vulgar literature of Charles Bukowski and the ex-boyfriend has since gone on to read many of his poems, short stories and his biography. I don't understand how anyone could live without books. It seems impossible to me.

My brother reads about 4 books a week. He's my hero.

2001-03-23, 05:27 p.m.
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