Defying historicizing contingencies is among our rarest images of inward freedom. Immune to the decline of authentic reading, personalities burst forth unmatched in language. These miracles of personality startle us with their eminence. The ironies they produce are too large to be seen clearly; despite their grandeur we peddle along propelled by their blazing highlights and intensities. Ardent admirers of their fresh profundity, the comic triumphs of literature forever establish our reliance upon genius.
Inventing through the agency of ironical powers, masters of language swirl us around in such a frenzy that every circumstance results in a matrimony of agreement. Wit and vivacity leads naïve gluttons. Tempered with silence and respect which their stories will inevitably excite, we remain directed toward foreign neighborhoods where amiable youth inherit kingdoms, resolve to take a husband or wife, mourn over melancholy events, and sloth around assuring us that all is well.
As their lives unfold we are uniformly silent, assuring ourselves that with each turn of the page no ungenerous line shall ever pass our lips as we read along. No genius ever betrays that! Their pomposity wouldn't allow it. The endless vainglory propels le Gloire onward. Pausing one sublime sentence after the next, their stylistic economy befriends us, invites us in, and after many long speeches, earnestly woos us with their happiest satisfactions, disinterest in establishment, and continual courtship for our thoughts.
The dance of the inward courtship, the poignance of falling in love with literature, the relationship and lineage that awakens our aesthetic sensibility exalts our soul's autonomy, eloquently beckoning us to dwell on with the warmth of the soft light the candle's flame enlivens.
It is impossible to conquer passion. Strength, ardor, desire ... rewarded by their own favorable answer, expressed in real colour, which reddens our cheeks, a sense of obligation vows for our sentiments. We read on again and again until we feel gratitude, until a most unconscious arousal overtakes our regard and we again swoon along with the protagonist.
Leaning against the mantlepiece with eyes transfixed on their faces, we catch their words with resentment, complexity, and surprise. Visible in every atrocity is the appearance of composure, lulled only because we allow their words to flow over us like a heavy blanket of amnesia. Forgetting ourselves we fall asleep with few of the salient aspects of our own personality. The acute inward freedom of individuation seems to be a giving way of our own subjectivity in favor of new moments. Irrespective of who experiences them, our minds feast upon their enduring insights.
It is no wonder those insistent upon order were superstitious of books.
There is some truth in what they say.
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