Now, fine, no longer disturbed by bees and no longer heartbroken (too proud and realistic) and having finished "The real life of Sebastian Knight", I'm struggling my way through "Ada or ardor: A family chronicle" by Vladimir Nabokov, a novel on insect(s) and incest, not because it's dull and boring, but because, whilst mesmerisingly beautiful and remarkably rich, the book has sophisticated language and subtle descriptions, not using simple vulgar or banal words. And, besides, with my limited English, my knowing no Russian word and a couple of French words and my very low level of intelligence, I must struggle and might give up any moment and move onto another novel. (But, I must add, it's getting easier and I'm, in my struggle, enjoying it.)
This book, if not the chief reason, still should get the blame for my mood swings, which in turn lead to my decision to close down my fb (temporarily, not sure for how long). On the 1 hand the main distraction must be eliminated- I need to spend more time reading and writing, and thinking. On the other hand, isn't it obvious that reading such a book in my current state causes me great pain and misery? This statement, again, has 2 sides- 1stly, like all excellent books, it inspires me, untalented me, to write something myself but at the same time kills my hope and makes me sink even more deeply in my pool of suffering and self-loathing, and books by him have always have this effect, Nabokov, monster and master; 2ndly, isn't it painful to read of 2 adolescents who inevitably fall in love, because of both their similarities and their differences, not only because they share the same energy, the same fire within themselves, but also because they both are unusually and remarkably brilliant (and therefore separated from others), to read such a book, whilst realising in reality the impossibility of something more than what's already between me and him?
And it saddens me even more to think that finding another person like him is (almost) impossible (and truthfully anyone who knows me and him knows who he is and how great), but perhaps like my mom has often said, no man is irreplaceable, and if there is one, irreplaceable and perfect, there's no chance for us anyway (loosely translated). So, move on move on move on. (Even if there's affection, what are we? Star-crossed lovers?)
Let it fade. Let it fade. Let it fade away.
(I still can't rid myself of the thought that if he keeps being here perhaps I'm never capable of loving anyone else. But what choice do I have anyway?)