A conversation through time

Throughout my life, reading has taught me much that I am grateful for. It has made me realize I am mostly normal, for one thing. That I am not alone in my thoughts, mannerisms, and deep-rooted fears.

The more you read, the more you know this to be true: we are all humans; our guiding principles a product of our time. I feel as others feel; I yearn and suffer as others do. My dreams, precious and personal as they are, exist in parallel to a multitude of similar aspirations from others. Reading has taught me that despite of what my mother may think, I am, at the end of the day, a pretty average person. Mundane. Ordinary, even. A liberating and terrifying thought in equal measure.

Reading also taught me to appreciate the window through time that is literature. We are privileged to listen and learn from great minds of the past. Scientists in awe of the natural world, pondering over the mysteries of life and the universe: Darwin, Einstein, Sagan. Philosophers debating the puzzling questions that are, to this day, still mostly unresolved: De Beauvoir, Sartre, Camus. Take your pick and take them to bed. Snuggle up with them under the covers. Yes, yes – I know. It’s only a book. But isn’t it thrilling, isn’t’ it electrifying to have these illustrious guests all in your head? To own a direct line to someone else’s effervescent thoughts from long ago? Someone who once was, now gone in the spell that is time itself? I think so.

The one story that has deeply impacted my worldview is David Foster Wallace’s essay A supposedly fun thing I will never do again, even more so recently as I approach the age the author was when he wrote it. In this piece, Wallace narrates his experiences and opinions on a seven-night luxury Caribbean cruise. His account of the trip is delightfully scathing, and he is as unforgiving with others as with himself. There is one particular excerpt in which he talks about ageing and how his decisions will eventually narrow his existence down to an inescapable path, locking him into a life he does not necessarily want, and one which he can’t change or escape from. However, he ponders, as he is the one making these choices, the situation is unavoidable – all adults must make decisions and live with the consequences they entail.

As I read Wallace’s piece, I could not help but feel a deep sense of appreciation for this man who could elaborate on a complex feeling so articulately. His writing was elegant, and the words flowed effortlessly from the page. And just like that, he had explained with grace a feeling I had carried with me all my life. We had the same angst, we shared the same disquiet. It was normal. We were normal. I was normal. It was one of those conversations through time, and one I will be forever grateful for.