Q

While the morning was still opaque and my eyes chalky i took the chance to sink into J.M. Coetzee.

A few pages in came a strange sensation of deja vu. Except it wasn’t a duplicate of a specific moment. It was a boomerang of insights, images, plots, induced feelings, concepts super-imposed on each other i don’t even remembering throwing out curving it’s way back to me.

It started with the thought:

I know this scene. It’s so familiar. Was it from another Coetzee? No wait.. it was from Beatrice and Virgil i think..

and just like that a heady concentrated mess of everything i’ve read came right up. I never thought it was possible to compact every thing i’ve devoured (and i’ve read pretty damn much in my life) into a single package, but there it was. Unlike my usual musings this one will unearth no epiphany.

Just an appreciation, an almost humbling appreciation for novels and everything they’re made of.