Reading an autobiography is like talking to a new friend. A very chatty friend that doesn't let you comment on her life story.
Reading an autobiography for me is also turning out to be a quite painful and emotive activity. All of a sudden, after reading such strong books perhaps, I am feeling inadequate.
I don't mean to search for compliments. I know what I do daily is important, I know that. But after reading Stevenson's plight, while he worked 20 hours a day to save an innocent man from death row or Angelou's magnificent weaving of words, explaining the pain of losing her good friend Malcom X... it makes me feel so insignificant in this world.
This is a book I recommend. It reads very quickly, it is interesting, it is thought provoking. It was surprising. I don't know much about Maya Angelou. (I guess I do now haha) But I did not know much about her. Frankly all I knew was that she was a black poet and that she wrote Still I Rise, a widely used poem in this year's Superbowl commercial.
With this book, she became, as I already wrote, my good friend. (Though I did not become hers.) Not a faraway poet that is so intellectual it is difficult to imagine, just a woman trying to find her place in the world, trying to control her emotions and trying to raise her child to be a respectable man.
This is even worse.
Now I can identify with a famous poet but still have not published any of my writing.
Perhaps, I like to tell myself, I do not have enough suffering in my life. Perhaps I need a dead loved one to conjure back my emotions and my power to write. That sounds horrible. So I sweep those thoughts away. But the thought that happiness, love, comfort, so-called "good" emotions don't allow me to write, keeps scratching at my heart.
Ramble Ramble.
Just like with Mindy Kaling's book this was not the first in her autobiographical series, so I wonder what I missed in the first one, perhaps I'll find it soon- it was not in the small selection of the West Irving Library unfortunately.
Page Count: 212
Total: 2847
Reading an autobiography for me is also turning out to be a quite painful and emotive activity. All of a sudden, after reading such strong books perhaps, I am feeling inadequate.
I don't mean to search for compliments. I know what I do daily is important, I know that. But after reading Stevenson's plight, while he worked 20 hours a day to save an innocent man from death row or Angelou's magnificent weaving of words, explaining the pain of losing her good friend Malcom X... it makes me feel so insignificant in this world.
This is a book I recommend. It reads very quickly, it is interesting, it is thought provoking. It was surprising. I don't know much about Maya Angelou. (I guess I do now haha) But I did not know much about her. Frankly all I knew was that she was a black poet and that she wrote Still I Rise, a widely used poem in this year's Superbowl commercial.
With this book, she became, as I already wrote, my good friend. (Though I did not become hers.) Not a faraway poet that is so intellectual it is difficult to imagine, just a woman trying to find her place in the world, trying to control her emotions and trying to raise her child to be a respectable man.
This is even worse.
Now I can identify with a famous poet but still have not published any of my writing.
Perhaps, I like to tell myself, I do not have enough suffering in my life. Perhaps I need a dead loved one to conjure back my emotions and my power to write. That sounds horrible. So I sweep those thoughts away. But the thought that happiness, love, comfort, so-called "good" emotions don't allow me to write, keeps scratching at my heart.
Ramble Ramble.
Just like with Mindy Kaling's book this was not the first in her autobiographical series, so I wonder what I missed in the first one, perhaps I'll find it soon- it was not in the small selection of the West Irving Library unfortunately.
Page Count: 212
Total: 2847
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