*I wrote this a few years ago but feel to publish it now. This is not a definite shift from my typical writing to a new way of speaking or thinking; rather it is a vacation into some of my thoughts from the past.
“A book is not what the writer puts into it but what the reader gets out of it.”
Nothing we do matters then, at least not in the manner we intend. One may attempt with all strength and activity to bring about change in this world, in society and better the lives of others but surely cannot achieve it by the labors of one’s own mind and acts. What purpose then do our daily labors serve? If formal educators cannot make us wise, why do we find ourselves in cold, lifeless lecture halls taking notes about what others have thought and said in times and seasons past, treating them therefore as truth, whatever that may be, and struggle sometimes vainly to guess the answer a certain pedagogue had in mind when a test came into existence? What purpose does the knowledge of an educator serve then if one’s labors are strictly arbitrary and unaligned with the thoughts and intents of those in near proximity?
What are we then but flutterers in space, unattended by anything, untouched by the affectionate hand of another, perfectly lost and flitting about in an ever wayward existence? Such proves life without direction and without form. But considering man’s abhorrence of anarchy which form matters? Why create manmade hierarchies to which we bow and cower in reverence if there is no authority in this world that can override the existence of our own personal thoughts? Why seek to create beauty if surely it exists only in the eye of the beholder? What good do we achieve by penning brilliant thoughts even to match those of Plato when it shall fall inevitably into masses of lifeless texts among so many others to be forgotten or praised but not understood?
I suppose the relationship between reader and literature therefore proves a more personal attachment than between the reader and writer therefore. Who is the creator of the work but a slave to personal passions and prostitute to the goddess Success in striving to promote it?
Perhaps these things surely prove so when one fails to consider the aspect of love. Love it seems, changes the relations between people, bringing them closer together and uniting the minds otherwise floating unrelated in an unresponsive universe. It is the electronic binding between atoms, the glass through which we see the events around us as anything but arbitrary and the inevitable focal point around which everything else orbits, each in an ordered pattern. It is what brings life and spheres together and creates within the human mind a purpose for being, not in an overly passionate, self centered desire that we so often term as “love” in our present confused society but the genuine affectionate feeling that straightens our course before us and gives us the purpose to step into its all consuming adventure.