It’s been almost an entire new day since I wrote early in the morning of this same date. I’ve had a rather uneventful day and have just risen from an evening slumber. Earlier in the day I picked up a book at the library, Dostoevsky’s ‘The Adolescent’, and I am presently once again in the library with this book, about to delve upon its unfolding truths and
to attempt to decipher Dostoevsky’s genius. I had to add the word attempt for one can never be too modest, or so said Caesar. Et tu Dostoevsky?
For you crack the door and I see the light, only then do I enter and with confidence secure the door at which point I’m thrust into darkness, only to knock about in a clumsy search for the switch that will bring light forth upon my ignorance and the truths shall be mine. Isn’t that why we read? Or for that matter write, for those of true modesty fall into the trap of the insensible and mad writer, and as there are varying degrees of modesty, so there is with madness the same variances. For having written this, one might state a truly modest opinion of my madness, but seeing how this isn’t necessarily pointless rhetoric, for someone to have read this and claim me to be mad would seem entirely selfish. As Brutus claimed falsely of Caesar’s modest ways and twist the blade in his back, so does the writer believe in truth that we are not modest creatures, not if we read, and because we want to believe in our false modesty we are set up for a blade in the back. Now I will read. Live and read.
I think I may need to go back and read Dostoevsky’s ‘The Adolescent’ once again.