Why I Read

It's what keeps me sane in this insane world.

Twilight at Seaside by Caspar David Friedrich, 1819

As I was writing my previous essay on living unconformed lives in the digital age, I suddenly caught myself going off on a tangent about the profound effects my reading habits have had on me over the years. Since it was neither the time nor the place to expand on such sentiments I decided to record them on a separate piece.

I have knowingly stayed my hand from rigorously editing my words - although some minor editing was inevitable - as I wanted to present an unfiltered reflection on the state of my mind when I read. It is not unlikely that the following lines will give off a sense of pretendence or hyper-sentimentality. This was neither my goal nor my wish. What you read comes straight from my mind, for better or worse.

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Ever since I was a little kid, I would get obsessed with a story for days, sometimes even months. I noticed it first when I was begging my mother to read me a particular story every night before bed; it was a cute little white fox who comes across a frozen lake and happens to get a tingling chill when ice runs down its back. Immediately my mom would recreate the scene by suddenly tickling me on my back. Frantic giggles would ensue. The book had gorgeous images and the change in scenery was masterfully presented; the safety of a lush green forest on the slope of the mountain suddenly transformed into an icy landscape with evergreens dressed in white, and the frozen water like carefully carved marble mirrored the fox's puppyish muzzle.

This remains one of my fondest memories.

As I was growing older, my favorite stories became more mature and adventurous. The Crystal Mountain by Ruth Sanderson left me sleepless and occupied my head at all times. Fields of fire, oceans of raging storms, the beautiful fairies of the mountain, the duty of a son to his mother; I was reliving the same story every night and wanted to stay in that world forever.

The definitive moment of maturation, however, came when I read The Lord of the Rings, by J. R. R. Tolkien. I had first seen the movies as a boy and was blown away. In those late teenage years Tolkien’s writings made me aware of the beauty of stillness and oriented me upwards when I was morally confused. I saw the power of the Earth in the swiftness of the wind, the caress of the grass and the sturdiness of trees. The magic of the world resided in the enchanting song of the sea, the smell of the imminent rainfall and the aroma of the wet summer soil. Tolkien's definition of honor and corruption gave shape and face to the values I hold dear; made me realize what true friendship means, made me pity evil and pray for heroism, opened my eyes to the true essence of masculinity, honor, family and duty. For what greater realization for a teenager that the earth is divine and that life can be heroic.

This was the environment I grew up in; absorbed in stories and movies as I was lured by that inescapable force of participation. I know now I will never be free of it, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Spring Moon at Ninomiya Beach by Hasui Kawase, 1931

The most important milestone in my fiction-reading journey was when I picked up H. P. Lovecraft. Perhaps my extensive writings about his life and philosophy is a giveaway of the silent relationship I have cultivated with him. I was 20 when I first read The Dreams in the Witch House, but cosmic mystery has forever been at the forefront of my dreams. The “titan of terror” caused me to become so enamored with it that I can never stay away from him for too long.

The night sky is no stranger to me. We communicate deeply during the summer and hold a distant appreciation during the winter. I occasionally lay down at the beach or at the balcony, stare at the stars and wonder what cosmic horror might lurk in the deep abysms of space; if these freezing winds of the night have traveled from the far corners of the cosmos gnawing at our unconscious whose eon-long evolution is sheltering us through our blissful ignorance. The constellations dare a slight movement in my presence, and the eternal blue pyre that is Fomalhaut conjures an unnerving phantasmagoria as it rises above the horizon. I have become a lone swimmer, and the heavenly dome, ever so innocent and thinly veiled, has been transformed into a deep dark ocean; its surface the sole armor against mind-shattering chaos and multiplicity.

What, if not cosmic terror and the apparent meaninglessness of the universe, can better ground a man in reality and lead him to God? I digress. More on this (perhaps) in another post.

So far I have confessed the raw sentiments that awaken in me when I read. I haven't really gotten into the why of the matter.

It recently hit me that I exhibit the same thirst for ideas and philosophies, or perhaps knowledge more broadly. Classical literature is the perfect jumping point for someone as sensitive as me.

A literary classic is like a lover’s kiss; the first one leaves you baffled, the second makes you realise you want it forever.

Jour De Brouillard À Saint-Mammès by Alfred Sisley, 1880

Let me explain.

Most of you reading this probably understand that 1984 by George Orwell, for example, is not just a novel. It is described by many scholars as a prophetic work of art, declaring the death of freedom and the total reign of an authoritarian regime so sophisticated that its toppling would be impossible. However, I am certain that most people do not view it like that. I personally am incapable of viewing in any other way.

Similarly, Franz Kafka’s The Trial¹ has had a strange effect on me that most people would scoff if I articulated it. Many hate this book. It is indeed terrifying and claustrophobic, but profound nonetheless. Ain't we all at times a bit like Mr. K, damned and accused without ever knowing why? Cogs in a bureaucratic machine that could wipe us out in a nightmarish whirlwind of confusion never owing us any excuses? A terrifying predicament, perhaps, but a lesson in tyranny, powerlessness, and character - Kafka's protagonist is far from likeable.

The most striking example of all however, which I've mentioned briefly before, is Dostoevsky’s Notes From Underground. It shook me to my core when I was made to admit - by whatever spirit makes us admit such horrible yet true things - that suffering can indeed be pleasurable. Not only that but how one can easily fall so far as to invent false truths in order to ruminate endlessly and taste the perverse sweetness that comes with plotting revenge. A horrific resonance echoed inside me. It whispered: you have felt it too, haven't you? That sweet itch of self-inflicting victimhood growing larger and larger every time you indulge in it. Only the most profound texts can whisper like that to your unconscious; if you'd only dare to pay attention.

Here lies the danger and the life, damnation and salvation.

And this is the core of why I read.

Let me share a story with you. Earlier today, around noon, I was walking down the hill of our cottage, making my way towards the sea. I was lamenting the old days when we spent the whole summer here. These final days of August, ever so nostalgic, always prepare me for some kind of farewell. Nonetheless, my mind was sharp and I felt grateful. I was thinking of how to properly articulate the underlying substrate of what I wrote in the previous paragraphs. When discussing darkness, evil, and the abyss, it's hard not to think about Nietzsche's famous quote:

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

I thought a lot of the abyss as I was walking: "What could it be? What forms reside there? What are these monsters Nietzsche was talking about? What if the abyss is not a pitch-black realm of emptiness, but a realm of shadows², pain and death." That would make sense psychologically, wouldn’t it? But if the abyss is indeed a realm of shadows, i.e. the evil of humanity, shouldn't light be present there as well? By definition, a shadow is cast when light hits an object. If you can see the shadow, you can infer the light.

Then I thought of Jordan Peterson's response during his interview with Lex Fridman. He said:

If you gaze into the abyss long enough you see the light not the darkness.

The sun was pleasantly shining above my head warming up my joints and preparing my body for the swim. The seagulls sang as they plunged beak first into the sea. I suddenly looked down and to the right; my shadow. Of course! It is I who casts the shadow! I am the object that blocks the good and births the evil.

The abyss is a realm of pain and suffering caused by none other than our other self. We can witness its effects in our daily lives. Seemingly innocent people making life miserable for the ones they love; lies, cheating, violence, death. Failure to integrate the shadow will cause it to rear its head when one least expects it. The naive will be broken should they get exposed to malevolence, let alone if the perpetrator is themselves.

Why on Earth then should we gaze into the abyss? Won't the exposure cause pain and plunge us into chaos? Not necessarily. Voluntary exposure and purposeful exploration is key and will pave the way for the integration of the shadow. The whole purpose of gazing into the abyss is to finally discover that all-encompassing source of light; a light that is good and pure.

“The meeting with oneself is, at first, the meeting with one’s own shadow. The shadow is a tight passage, a narrow door, whose painful constriction no one is spared who goes down to the deep well. But one must learn to know oneself in order to know who one is.”
— Carl Jung

Great literary works serve this purpose perfectly. They give a clear shape to the shadows as they expose their terrorizing aspects. It has done the same to me for years.

Sanity will keep insanity at bay.

The light will shine through the darkness.

Burning the Darkness by Nicholas Roerich, 1890

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1. My mother still shudders when I mention it, not least because it’s one of my all-time favourites.

2. Check the linked article about Carl Jung and the Shadow by the brilliant

Academy of Ideas

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