The powerful education of books
Aug. 14th, 2004 10:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tsumikI have always wondered why someone who was considered intelligent has read alot of books. Why book reading was tied to intelligence in some abstract manner. Reading today it just sort of dawned on me. I realized as I read the numerous pages quietly as the sun set this evening that not only was I enjoying and reading the story in front of me but I was thinking of other things. Two streams of consciousness. One the initiator to the other. For little parts sparking distant memories in my head and complex problems that I have found no time to churn through my grey matter in search of answers.
Unlike quiet mediation or listening to one self think on a run... in books I find the story to be a host of sorts welcoming me from one thought to another. A magician that allows my conscious self the distraction with fanciful tales to forget to discipline my sub-conscious self from the decedent desire of ones it fancies. With no checks in place, no tasks of reality to worry itself, my hidden thoughts stream to anything it wishes to ponder.
And perhaps this is where true intelligence stems from. Not simply by learning of new things in books but by the simple fact one is now doubly efficient with two minds working seperatly instead of two minds overlapping on everyday realities.
I find myself searching myself, my loves new and loves lost, the existance of why, and all the bindings of friendships, acquaintances, and strangers. I feel more of my true self, a poet, a dreamer, and philosopher when lost in books. And I guess, slowly I feel myself returning back to the person who is me who I have lost along the way this summer.
So I'll bring you a story. One who is me that I wrote in college. And while it's just a rudimentary piece of literature to me now it might help explain to myself and to you who I really am. Feel free to skim, skip, or indulge in it. I shall place it behind a cut tag to allow you such accommodation of choice.
Unlike quiet mediation or listening to one self think on a run... in books I find the story to be a host of sorts welcoming me from one thought to another. A magician that allows my conscious self the distraction with fanciful tales to forget to discipline my sub-conscious self from the decedent desire of ones it fancies. With no checks in place, no tasks of reality to worry itself, my hidden thoughts stream to anything it wishes to ponder.
And perhaps this is where true intelligence stems from. Not simply by learning of new things in books but by the simple fact one is now doubly efficient with two minds working seperatly instead of two minds overlapping on everyday realities.
I find myself searching myself, my loves new and loves lost, the existance of why, and all the bindings of friendships, acquaintances, and strangers. I feel more of my true self, a poet, a dreamer, and philosopher when lost in books. And I guess, slowly I feel myself returning back to the person who is me who I have lost along the way this summer.
So I'll bring you a story. One who is me that I wrote in college. And while it's just a rudimentary piece of literature to me now it might help explain to myself and to you who I really am. Feel free to skim, skip, or indulge in it. I shall place it behind a cut tag to allow you such accommodation of choice.
