Young Idiot Is Genius

It is not often, certainly not often enough, that a piece of fiction allows me to so clearly cut through the billion uncertainties of life to see truth I never would have thought possible to know. Nor is it often that a book can make me feel so alive, so human and so aware, while striking me with the shocking notion that I understand a mere fraction of what there is to understand, like the Pale Blue Dot is a fraction of the universe. It’s with these thoughts, and many more, though so many less than is possible, that I finish The Fault In Our Stars by John Green, and with which I thank not only him, but the plentitude of other authors and artists who have instilled upon me this same indescribable feeling which with melancholy inevitability, time erases in a slow, painful fade. Even now I am unassailably extricated from the beautiful heart and mind of the artist, which they have very kindly and with much talent, allowed me to see, and into the vast darkness of a lonely mind.

Thank you, beyond words, for doing with such beauty that which makes us truly human; and for showing me a mind (and by extension, a world) outside myself.

On my phone right now, I have dozens of books. Each one is both a masterpiece and a revelation, the kind of book that changes the way you look at the world, the kind of literature that you just can’t put down. These books are written by geniuses; Pratchett, Gaiman, John Green, Scalzi, Wells, Tolkien, Westerfeld and Stoker. Reading these books it’s pretty much my life’s purpose, between work and school, I never have any free time, and when I do, it’s for studying.

This brings me to the woman next to me on the train, who seems to be lucky enough to find the time to read. She is using this time to read a dime-a-dozen Twilight ripoff vampire-romance. I think I’m going to kick her. Worst case scenario I get thrown in prison for assault, but at least that’ll give me plenty of time to read.