The problem for me with this type of book (by which I mean creative, vivid, and flawlessly crafted) is that I can't remember what I thought, felt, and remembered during it, other than that I enjoyed reading it. If it doesn't spark something within me, doesn't leave the germ of a thought of experience behind it, I am left wondering what the point of reading it was.
Which, as all things, is a metaphor for the larger reality. Is it enough that something--whether it be book, other experience, or existence itself--be enjoyable? Is that really all there is? Is the insistence on something deeper, some meaning, a lost cause? Or worse yet, a disorder? I have a feeling that I won't be able to answer this question with regard to literature until I answer it for my entire reality.
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