For words never die

I finished reading L. M. Montgomery's The Blue Castle yesterday, a lesser known work but still very good (in my opinion) by the author of Anne of Green Gables fame.  Reading various of her works, one can perhaps get a slight feel for the soul of this woman and reading some of the biographical details of her life only confirms that she lived an often sad/disappointing life but has a heart that looked at things unseen, that hoped for things beyond this world, she found joy in the midst of sorrow.  I wonder if the books/authors we love most are those in which we find a connection to our own lives, experiences, and personalities; 'kindred spirits' as the beloved Anne would say.  For there are books I cannot comprehend, loathe, or am just plain bored with that others consider classics, favorites, or must-reads.  And I know there are people that think I am silly or perhaps batty in my choice of reading material.  

I hate showing my writing to people I know, for I feel like it bares my soul to their ridicule and if they do not like it, their indifference or criticism strikes deep, yet for some reason it does not hurt near so much if a complete stranger dislikes it.   I am minded of Elizabeth Bennet saying, "There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.”  Or perhaps Bilbo Baggins, "I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."  Perhaps this is why I connect so well with Montgomery's characters, for I see myself in them: hurting dreamers that the world little understands, who often have a hard time connecting with others but when they do connect, they put their whole hearts into the relationship, thus risking further pain and injury, which only makes it harder to connect again if they are thus wounded.

But that is the beauty of books, we can see ourselves in them like a mirror that we might better understand ourselves, correct our faults, and better relate to the world in general.  They connect all forthcoming generations with those that have gone before, with a world that has ceased to be yet which never changes.  Our technology and societal norms change but the rhythms of nature and the human heart have not changed since the dawn of Time, nor has our love for story.  So write on ye poets and scribes that men may not forget, that long after you have fallen to dust, some heart may be touched by a kindred soul long forgotten for words never die.

If you are a dreamer, come in,

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,

A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer…

If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire

for we have some flax-golden tales to spin.

Come in!

Come in!

-"Invitation," Shel Silverstein (Where the Sidewalk Ends)