Dec. 31st, 2007

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Recently, every time I read something that resonates with me, I feel my heart reaching out, some phantom part of my spirit straining to embrace the author.

I've just read one of George MacDonald's adult novels, Robert Falconer, about a Scottish boy who struggles with his belief in God, and his desperate need to believe combined with a native inability to do so. It reminded me so much of myself at 14 and 15- absolutely tortured with a desire to be close to a God that I wasn't really sure I could believe in.  I also just finished The Passionate Friends, by H.G. Wells, which deals with (what else?) a passionate love between childhood friends, thwarted by society. It's both a treatise on sex relations and the sex-based subjugation of women in society, and on the wider problem of selfish jealousy in humans. And it's so beautiful, written with such an open spirit and such vivid suffering and self-examination. Wells beat at the doors of conventional morality and paid the price for it, and I've done the same in my lifetime, the details of which I won't go into here.

But here's the thing- not only do these books reach me, they do so so intensely that I feel like I reach them, too- like part of me meets the author in the realm of shared, deeply affecting experience. I don't want to sound ridiculously mystical, but the feeling is like a communion. I wonder if that makes sense to anyone who might read this.

In other news, I hope everyone on my flist has a very happy New Year, and an enjoyable, non-disastrous New Year's Eve.


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