Two more Books and a perfect time to read them...

In a few days, I reach a chronological age when , by definition or statistical probability, at least half of my average life span has been expended. In other words, on a normal bell curve, I am at the median, and on the other side of it lies a series of data points that spread up to 70, with a large distribution of outliers as well. So on a life-span graph, assiduously constructed from sophisticated statistical tools, I am at point when One is supposed to make that transition to impending old age with dignity and grace. Though, physically the body has some distance to go before it can start showing signs of decrepitude, this short essay is more of an inner barometer of progress, or balance that ought to have achieved after having spent donkey number of years floating with and against the flotsam and jetsam of existence..

During my travel this week, I carried along two significant books that I managed , despite a vey busy schedule - to read and finish. One is Anthony storr's "Solitude- A return to the self" and the other is Thomas Wolfe's mercurial and ornate debut work of fiction " Look Homeward, angel.." In a way, both these books reflected my current state of being. Over the last few years, I have been driven by this tremendous urge to discover the solace of being utterly alone. Not in the sense of being lonely, but rather basking in a state of "not craving" for company to affirm my existence. Dr Storr was a psychiatrist who belonged to the Jungian school of thought, and It was though him that I formally learnt the primary motifs of Jung's work. It had opened up a world of possibilities, when I had read his commentaries on Jung's voluminous writings; and had also touched a deep chord of recognition of certain principles of "self-hood" that I had been harboring for quite a while in my life. This short book, however, is one of Dr storr's less technical presentation of the need for solitude in an individual's life. Contrary to modern psychoanalysis, where integration of one's personality to the world outside seems to be the main focus, Dr Storr, wonderfully presents the absolute need for being alone with oneself and face the mad onrush of the desires, cravings, fantasy and aberrations - not to overcome them, but rather to sublimate their torrential force in the fire of creativity; and to observe these "irrational" promptings from existence as a gentle whisper from the infinite in supplication uging us to strike a balance between the heart and intellect. To me, this book stuck a strange resonance to a way of life that has pulsating in me for the last few years.. It bought together several disparate strands of thoughts into a tighter knit web of understanding. It is almost like a alchemical reaction where we drop a little phosphate into a chemical concoction, and all of a sudden the liquid coagulates and turns blue in color. It tipped over its mutating point.. This short book did something similar to me. In fact, at certain points in my reading, I stood arrested by a blind light of comprehension that had been eluding me for some time. Anyways, this was a significant mid-life book to read on the eve of a birthday..

Thomas Wolfe on the other hand was one of brightest stars of English literature blotted out quickly in his prime. He lived for a brief 38 years in the early part of twentieth century, and produced four full length novels during that period. "Look homeward angels" was his first and possibly the most widely acknowledged masterpieces of his work. His writing has that rhapsodic quality to it, which I find only reflected in a Oscar wilde, a Henry James. or a Daphne de maurier. This story is partly biographical, and it traces the growth of a young introverted boy alienated , caught in the world of books and imagination and carving for himself a stability in life by reconciling his brooding introversion and creative outbursts. Every page of this book is poetry in prose. Wolfe supposedly wrote this novel over twenty months in a state of delirium; and every sentence oozes with a vibrancy and pulse that can only come from the depths of creative birth pangs. Some of his character descriptions run into multiple pages; separated by semicolons and comma and colons - almost as if, his hand moved at a pace over which he had no control and words poured out of his colorful unconsciousness with precision, artistry, unparalleled flair and style.. It is a heavy big book, and I had started reading it a couple of weeks ago. As my flight touched down today, I finished reading last few pages of the book. I have the same feeling of fulfillment as I had when I put down Dostoevsky's "Three idiots" or James Joyce's "Ulysses". A echo of a distant past ripped through my consciousness, as if in recognition of a long lost and found piece of precious experience..

There is festivity in the air. Christmas is around the corner and the airports are buzzing with life and energy. There is talk of vacations and family gatherings and a general sense of excitement.. To me, however, this is going to be a quiet month, probably get to feel my way a little deeper into myself. This is after all the right season and age for it....

God bless..