I'm falling in love again.
With men who aren't my husband, with men who I've never even met and will never ever meet.
They have a way with words, these men. They know how to weave emotions into their words, emotions so strong that they can make me laugh out loud or move me to tears....these words have angered me with the injustice that they've told, they've repulsed me and sickened me....
....they have trapped and caught me, and now that they've got me I never want to leave.
Steinbeck. Joyce. Hemingway. Kerouac. These are my loves, my lovers. I covet their words, I want to own every word they've ever written and hide them on my bookshelves so that I can take them out and be enraptured by them whenever I want.
East Of Eden, The Grapes Of Wrath, Of Mice And Men, Travels With Charley. The Dharma Bums, On The Road. For Whom The Bell Tolls, The Sun Also Rises, Farewell To Arms. The Dubliners, Portrait, Ulysses.
I often wonder if these men knew how powerful their words were when they put them down on paper. I wonder if they knew how they would change the way people think, if they knew how they would stir emotions in the people that read their words.
I wonder if they knew how much they were loved, how much they would be loved....
....if they knew what they were doing when they wrote.
I think they knew. They MUST have known. Why else would they write?