books: it’s just made up things
When I was a kid, a teenager, a student I read a lot. It was not only that I struggled to take part in European culture and be received into German society by soaking in all their literature. I just loved reading, I just loved books. They were my friends. But then I lost interest in reading after studies at the university and the music conservatory.
Plato was not very fond of art. He had this idea that everything is an image of an archetype. For him art then is a copy of a copy. I suppose I have a similar distrust towards things being doubled. There are enough made up stories in my head (what I would do, if I’d meet you again, how I would ignore you and your wife, how I would respond to racist comments in the tube, how cool I would act on stage playing the piano or the melodica, how I have this crush on that older guy who sometimes has depressions, and how I would just like to kiss him next time etc. etc.), – why should I be entranced by made up stories by a stranger who wrote them down, found a publisher and sells them to me?
No word is reality.
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