The Balm of Books

Today I was in a better frame of mind. I woke up fairly early, cleaned up the area around my bed a little, then wandered off to the Kleistpark with Sense and Sensibility in hand. As I walked down along the BVG building the lovely warm breeze carried the vague scent of blossoms. The splendid plane tree near the colonnades is beginning to bear leaves again, and this time it blended in with the colonnades in a less austere way. As for the trees in the large round lawn in the middle of the park, they were quite green. There were innumerable families out, in scattered groups that immediately reminded me of a painting. I found an unoccupied bench and managed to read quite well; but I'm probably still "stale" as far as Jane Austen goes, because I didn't get into the book. I haven't read any of her books from cover to cover for over a year, but once I knew Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion, for example, practically word for word. This time her severe characterization of Lady Middleton, for example, struck me unpleasantly. Maybe I should try rereading her other books, or waiting a few years.

When I came back home Mama and Papa had already set up a new base for a bookshelf in T.'s and my room, and Mama was filling the shelves with books. After she was done I rearranged the lower shelves, so that my favourite books will be at arm's reach for bedtime reading. I haven't read many non-virtual books for a while, but I intend to start again. Particularly children's books, when read properly, make me feel that the world is in order as very few other things can. It's nice to rearrange books, too, so that they have a new context. One of the charms of the books in our shelves is that I can look at most of them and immediately picture where they were in our old house. They weren't schematically arranged even then, and I'm not homesick for our old house, but the mental associations are still pleasant.

I feel a little ashamed about yesterday's post. First of all, it is rather whiny; secondly, I believe on mature reflection that its analysis is inaccurate. I like pity, or at least sympathy, but in this case I doubt that I deserve it, or at least I worry that it would be quite unmixed with any respect for my common sense. It's all in the perspective, I suppose; many people would probably like to be in a position where they are not working and where they still have many options open. If I were outside of myself, I would probably find it patently obvious what I should do, and tell myself to do instead of think. And I'd probably rather despise myself. As it is, I must impatiently wait for enlightenment, whether through the glacially slow process of reason or through happy circumstance. But by now I've done so much introspection that my mind must (metaphorically speaking) resemble the mirror-filled dressing room of Sir Walter Elliot in Persuasion; as Admiral Croft exclaimed, "Such a number of looking-glasses! oh Lord! there was no getting away from oneself!"