Literature, poetry, lots of books and just some stuff I write
“Confronted as we are by the mystery of literature, and by its inenarrable power, we are behooved to discover the source of the power and mystery. And yet, finally, what can avail? The work of literature throws before us a profound veil which we cannot plumb. And we are but votaries before it, helpless in its sway. Who would have the temerity to lift that veil aside, to discover the undiscoverable, to reach the unreachable? The strongest of us are but the puniest weaklings, are but tinkling cymbals and sounding brass, before the eternal mystery.”
John Williams, Stoner
Regret and failure, a life wasted in nothingness and sorrow, or, even worse, the absence of any pain and feeling at all..it must be an unbearable burden for Stoner having to die having accomplished too little, too late, counted for nothing, having been nothing to anyone, meaning nothing. Useless life, useless death: Stoner is afraid of that, of having let chances slip through his fingers, the shadow of a lost love forever gone.
And yet he has his book. The only book he has ever written and published. He knows he cannot find himself there, yet he knows the smallest part of his self his hidden among the dusty pages.
Then the book isn’t Stoner’s anymore and yet Stoner becomes the book itself and the book becomes Stoner, till the last darts of life and knowledge and bare naked vitality pass from the book to the man and viceversa.
Then death, and nothing.
But a part of Stoner will always live there, among the yellow dusty pages. A part of Stoner has achieved immortality