Losing myself in a book, The Thirteenth Tale (Diane Setterfield). Finally, a book that takes you with it. And I realise I really should go to Yorkshire sometime, in real life. Seems to be all Bronte-land (not that I ever really liked the Brontes), windswept moors and brooding skies, frowning men and apron-clad housekeepers. People and manors equally gothic and at least one aristocratic family is haunted by madness. Perhaps Yorkshire doesn't exist outside of literature? I must find out.
When I'm not reading, I'm wondering where my life is headed. Are there more adventures or is the rest all disappointment?
3 comments:
Sadly, a lot of humanity doesn't seem to exist outside literature.
Reading lets me be within myself without having to answer to other people's notions of what my imagination should be like. :)
And well, I suppose it is actually up to us, whether we view 'real' life as an adventure or a disappointment... even when we're being hurt by people who supposedly know us. It is an adventure, but perhaps of a different sort. Nobody said anything about happy endings, right?
Well said about reading. And yes, I think I agree. Looking back on my life so far, it didn't even remotely turn out the way I thought it would. But - wohooo, what an adventure! If I choose to look at it that way.
Heh. Sarcasm is the best thing ever. :P
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