Reading for Pleasure: A "Visit" or an "Escape"?

     Why do I prefer to call reading for pleasure a "visit" rather than an "escape"?
     Reading stories of various kinds is one of my favorite pastimes. But, when I first encountered the notion of reading for pleasure as "an escape" from everyday life, I recoiled from it with an inexplicable distaste. Gradually as I matured, I began to understand why I felt an aversion to the notion.
     Though I derive satisfying pleasure from reading stories, I have come to comprehend a truth that I have known vaguely since childhood. The purpose of reading stories is not merely for pleasure, but also to absorb truth, to ponder the truth as it enters the mind, and thereby to gain understanding and wisdom. To me, to read stories solely to escape into a pleasure land counters this purpose, and hampers one from fully experiencing all the enjoyment that can be derived from and through stories.
     The notion of reading as "an escape" also hints to me that life is a drudgery, and that pleasurable reading is a "drug" to alleviate the tedium of ordinary life. But the very fact that one chooses to live daily life despite routine elevates living from drudgery to a heroic struggle. Combined with the extraordinary events that happen to all, an exciting, intriguing picture of ordinary life emerges, if one wills to see it.
     A by product of the notion that life is drudgery could be that the fictional worlds in stories are sometimes viewed as more thrilling or enjoyable than reality. But from whence came the stories? The authors did not conjure them from nothingness, but from reality, either directly or from reflections of it, and they compiled that reality into new forms. This refashioning of reality touches the reader most deeply when it points to truth because it reflects a reality they subconsciously know to exist, or that ought to be.
     Thus, stories are meant to be an experience, not of escape from reality, but of enduring truths. These truths are conveyed in stories through common human actions, thoughts, and emotions. Though reading, enjoying, and pondering stories, the reader experiences these truths, and comes to a deeper understanding of human nature and the world.

Minimalist Writing

     It seems to me that modern writing, in fiction and non-fiction, is not very descriptive. More like Ernest Hemingway and less like Charles Dickens. True, Dickens' styles may have been overblown and long winded, and Hemingway crisp, but to write in newspaper prose deprives readers of one of the chief pleasures of good reading: Beautiful language.
     Writers are often told to expand their vocabulary, only to be warned against using many adjectives and adverbs. This advice is sound in itself, and prevents, long winded adverbial and adjectival descriptions which add nothing worthwhile to a description and weigh down prose, confusing the reader. But too rigid an adherence to this maxim, and newspaper prose in abundance streams from the keyboards of aspiring writers.
     Perhaps this maxim, modified, can be reconciled with the expansion of vocabulary. Perhaps what should be emphasized is the acquisition of vivid nouns and verbs, instead of a general "expand your vocabulary" advice. Then, combined together with a moderate usage of pertinent adverbs and adjectives, a powerful, descriptive writing style, filled with beauty, can emerge.
     Language is meant to describe things so accurately that one can see what the author is trying to convey. It should inspire awe, invoke the admiration of beauty, teach truths to the ignorant, and admonish the heedless. But how can this be done well with bare-minimum prose?
     As a closing statement, I shall compare Jane Austin's classic opening to Pride and Prejudice with my "newspaper prose" rendition:
     "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."
     "All know that a wealthy young bachelor needs a wife."

Utter Randomness

The first bit is a random excerpt that I wrote a good while ago (though edited).


"Seething madness swirls round me. Darkness shuts upon me. All is a whirling of confusion. Then, a tabernacle I suddenly perceive in its midst. I reach out, clutch it and cling to it with all my might. For within is my haven, my stability when all else is chaos."

When I was about 14-15 years old, Suddenly,startlingly, began to noticed the eyes of the people around me when I went out in public. From the aged to mere toddlers, nearly all bore a dull, glazed, jaded expression. An expression of deep sadness. A sadness that prevailed even when they laughed.
I felt a stabbing pain to my soul, as a desire to reach them, teach them, was aroused in my heart. I would wonder what could so deaden and crush joy that a mark of boredom nigh to nihilistic despair would be stamped upon their eyes even in the midst of abundance and pleasures.
I wanted to catch these souls with a woven net of prayers and draw them to God. I was so full of peace, yet around me were billions of souls in pain, agony, fear. Souls that did not know or who had forgotten the God I knew.
Now, as I am about to go to college, I realize what a grace it was to be allowed to see the sorrow in their eyes. Though I am imperfect,there is a task to be done, there is something that God wants to do through me. Perhaps it is to show one of them the way to Himself.
Only in eternity shall I know.

Bright Days: Why I Write Part Two

Outside, the pale white-gold sunlight shines through the pale green leaves, lending them a yellow glow. In contrast, the Eastern Redceaders make a contrast with their dark forest green needles, which seem to remain perpetually in shadow. A few other trees, mostly pecans and oaks, bears leaves of a deeper hue than the former, but brighter than the latter ceaders.
Verdant, lush grass, refreshing to walk upon and to gaze upon, covers the land. Flowers of vivid yellow and purple, always the heralds of spring where I live, spring up in sparse, scattered groups. Above is a clear, pale blue sky.
I love the place that I live at.
Once more, I am reminded of why I write. Around me, the color that symbolises hope is blazoned brightly,boldly. I wish to inspire, to remind people in these days that hope yet remains. I wish to defy empty, nihilistic literature by boldly proclaiming that though fallen, we have hope. We can find redemption. We can find joy. We can find God.

Redemptive Sufferring

I fear suffering, yet it pursues me. My burdens are infinitesimal, ones that most people in the world would regard as nothing compared to their trials, and they would be right. But interior pain, caused by a conflict of self-love and a desire for sanctity, is my habitual companion.
I desire to embrace, to love suffering as the saints did, but lacked any degree of understanding of the nature of that love, until now. To love anything on earth, especially suffering itself, is to suffer. It will maim your pride, and crush you beyond anything you thought could be endured. It will hurl your dearest thoughts, plans-even possesions-into a maelstrom of bitter disappointment and obliterate them. What you cherished it seems to transform into a hollow mockery. You begin to wonder if you have done anything worthwhile.
If the advances of suffering are welcomed, though in tears, joy will come. It will force you to gaze outward, then above. First at your fellow men, then upon the Suffering Christ on the Cross.

(Note: I live a very happy life. But I am a melancholic, and redemptive suffering has filled my thoughts of late, giving me a fervent desire to write of it)

Introduction: Why I Write Number One

     On a grey-white fall day two years ago, I sat upon my bed, glanced out of the window, and stared, rapt in calm wonder at what I saw, jotting down meanwhile what I have posted below (slightly edited):

     Towards evening, a white mist began to descend from the hilltops into the valleys, lending an ethereal mystique to the trees, which were great, fluffy clumps of deep green, burnt red, and rust yellow. Shrouded beneath the translucent veil of mist, they solemnly and mechanically swayed in the mild gusts that traveled by, over, and through them.
     The clouds above were a pale, bright grey, reflecting an unearthly brightness onto the hills and valleys. In the wood glades and tiny fields stood coarse grasses of chocolate brown, orange-brown, straw-brown, lime and forest green, sticking up like pliable needles or feathers on a feather duster. Flowers frosty white and lemony yellow mingled with the grasses, as tokens of summer past, as forebodings of winter to come.
     The fog grew thicker, and crept nearer...

     To describe, to capture in writing such scenes as written above is a driving motivation that inspires me to write. To write vividly in beautiful English, to learn to see beauty around me, this is why I write.
     But there are other reasons that inspire me, even more compelling.