Let me get it started again

        Having instructed myself to write on Saturday, I'm now responsibly trying to sneak in a few minutes for so noble a task on MRT.
        I've spent much more time than I'd hoped on making pastries and icecream this week, must stop.  The urge to bake and cook, oddly enough, is the most difficult things to resist for me.   it's the only thing in my life that might remotely resembles crack.
        I once wrote, on a whim, that I was introduced to English literature by "shakespeare and the drunkards."
        O it was so much more than that.  
        I was, in the very first minute of our encounters, entranced by their ineffable allure.
        From the first pleasant sigh for Hamlet, I gradually and invariably fell in love with the vast possibility and depth they showed me in literature, of which I'd never imagined before.  Marinating in each ingeniously placed sentences and words, I finally realized the devoted love I had for literature in the past years - the nifty beauty I found in reading Chinese literature exclusively,  that captured me so - it was but a coincidence. 
        I couldn't possibly truly appreciate literature before, because I'd never known the wonder it could be.  I couldn't possibly believe that literature would always be an essential part of my life, because my ability to imagine a greater art was overwhelmed by preconceptions.  
       But after encountering Shakespeare - and yes, the drunken geniuses - my eyes are opened.
       I've been digging and making new discoveries ever since.  Every now and then I find new reasons to love literature.
       So many verses and novels and wonderful mumblings to go through; I yearn to begin  new love affair every minute of every day.

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