Notebook

Bombarded as we are with the inanity of celebrity publishing, it is important to remind ourselves that true and meaningful literature really does still exist. Often, such literature appears accidental in nature, springing up like wild flowers on a barren slope. Devoid of clever packaging, it relies instead on its content to hold us. It also demands our intelligent response, born of attention, and our willingness to see things in new and different ways. The human need to explain, to tell, to relate, provides us with an ongoing opportunity to find out more about who we are, and gives us hints as to why we so often fail in that quest. Real literature doesn�t pretend to give us the answer. Rather, it suggests a multitude of answers, all of which are subject to change. This is why I hold reading and writing in such high regard. The possibilities are endless. Despite what our respective governments tell us, despite what the pundits and nay-sayers would have us believe, it really is okay to think about things and to change our minds. There is no reason to accept the contrived gospel preached by those whose aim is profit, not enlightenment. There is every reason to accept the truth that very little lies within our control, and that this, too, is a good thing. Today doesn�t have to be the same as yesterday. Tomorrow doesn�t have to be the same as today. It might seem convenient, but convenience has a way of putting us to sleep. If all we read are corporate-mandated advertisements, then we unwittingly become consumers that feed the machine of petty commerce. If we read literature, on the other hand, we are coaxing ourselves out of the shadows and into the light.