So while in Ireland I did read Dubliners. By all accounts it is a brilliant book. It reminded me of reading Winesburg, Ohio (except with real places). I loved reading about streets I was walking on or hearing people talk about trips to Galway and the Aran Islands. But reading Dubliners colored the way I saw the world, and not necessarily in a good way. Life itself has waves of emotion. But this was one story after the next of those bitter, disappointed, jaded waves that leave you feeling wrecked but alive; bruised but without broken bones. Hurt enough to get a nod of pity but not the real thing. It felt like some of the short stories in my life. But those short stories (some much longer than others) are interspersed with others stories- perhaps not happy but at least hilarious. And weaved throughout them is some kind of belief that there is something good in this universe. Without those it leaves a kind've dull aching in your chest that you just hope to God doesn't indicate internal bleeding or something...or do you really care at all? Remember- nobody else does.
I need a drink.
I need a drink.
