Nothing new seems good, at first. Things only age well with time and repetition. At first, I couldn’t understand the hype around a rock band like The Doors, for example, or a guardian angel like B.B. King, or a Mozartian genius like Jimi Hendrix. The first time I heard them moan and scream, I put them all down and walked away.
The first time I read Finnegan’s Wake, I was thoroughly outraged. When I encountered Whitman in college, I didn’t understand a single word. I once literally threw T.S. Eliot’s Wasteland clear across the room.
But then I got older, and lived longer, and the more I lived, the more I understood what life really is. So, The Doors showed me how to die, and King ushered me gently through the Underworld, and Hendrix hastened my resurrection. While Joyce was squaring the circle of life, Whitman taught me the wind, and Eliot turned despair into a song. Homer taught me the fire of agony, and Melville harrowed my bones for the rest of my life.
Keep reading. Keep watching. Keep listening. Sometimes we’re not yet ready for the Truth.
Back to chapter one.