It has been a long while ever since I read a novel book. It moved me. It probed me into thinking about my life in a way that I have never been able to. I do not know whether it has anything to do with the fact that I have never read poignant contemporary English novels. But, what indeed is true is that I have found that another person who is equally capable to feel but more capable to express.
This ability of expression makes me happy. It makes me feel as if my world is more complete than ever. Before, my life had been just my experience and the experience was not uttered and shared. I lacked the verbal capability to express and I lacked the opportunity to learn from the others. I am not sure whether I have lacked an audience. Well, I probably did. I had missed that train last time. I am not going to miss that again.
The story of What I Loved is about the love that is cherished but lost. Does it not sound like cliché when I put it down so blatantly this way? I guess love is never cliché, no matter how much people might think it is, including me sometimes. In retrospect, living in an artless world is a horror. To be precise, it was not an artless world that I had been living in, but rather, it was an artful world whose aesthetics is way beyond my grasp. It made me mute. It made me dull. And now, I see my feeling and sensation reviving.
I don’t actually know whether there is something called vanity that I seem to value so much. However, I do reckon that a lot of my motivation and ambition does not necessary fall into the tendency of trying to say within my own little comfort zone.
After all, I am glad that I feel I am a fuller human being.
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