The Red And The Black
Ideas, when presented in books, are significantly more profound than in conversation. From the reader's perspective, he can read the same lines by the same author from the same book several times over decades and find himself having a completely different conversation with the author.
I recently finished reading "The Red and the Black" by Stendhal. This masterful work solidified my reverence for Stendhal as a novelist. The book explores the inner workings of egotistical love. As Stendhal states, "Love of the head has doubtless more intelligence than true love, but it only has moments of enthusiasm. It knows itself too well, it sits in judgment on itself incessantly; far from distracting thought, it is made by sheer force of thought." No author conveys the duality of love as masterfully as Stendhal. After putting down "The Red and the Black" for the final time, the reader finds himself sitting in judgment of love.
The protagonist, Julien, with his handsome appearance, Machiavellian poise, admirable intellect, and heady love, draws every lady he encounters. Soon, they become infatuated with his poetic prose and adventurous ambitions. Alas, such charm and vigor can undoubtedly lead to resentment, love triangles, and envy from onlookers and past lovers. "The Red and the Black" is both a tragic tale and one that makes the reader vehemently gaze upon the opposite sex and love itself with wide eyes, an open heart, and keenness. The novel leads the reader to come to terms with the power a woman holds over a man, even if he is an autodidact son of a carpenter who searches for meaning in the 18th-century Salon culture.
I have a habit of gifting novels to friends who are linguistically impoverished, telling them, "You could use this," as I shove it in their face, and they politely accept my offer (jokingly). Often, they will ask me what the novel is about. I scramble my thoughts for a moment and try to recall exactly what was in the text, perhaps instilling less confidence in them regarding my book recommendations. This scrambling of ideas and lapse of recollection is rather embarrassing. "I read it, how can I not remember its contents?" I think, as my friend scrutinizes me with a doubtful look. Ideas of others are like a cheap lining or paint coat that chips away with ease, just as one can hardly remember the taste of food he had the previous night, he struggles with recalling entire themes of novels! This is the problem with vehemently pursuing academic knowledge and prioritizing it over learned experiences. The former dwindles while the latter perpetually builds upon itself, and ideas, ideologies, and entire religions are formed this way. The Latin word for potential is 'potentia,' meaning might, capability, power, and force. One must ask how reading the works of others diminishes their 'potentia.' One cannot read himself into being a good writer; there are innate qualities such as wit, humor, and cleverness that pre-dictate one's linguistic talent before they put pen to paper. Thus, I do not say to you, "Read more!" No, I say, "Live more!" It is only through living that one can explain things and, hopefully, be able to explain what an entire novel is about without remembering its contents entirely. It is the feeling that the book invokes that needs to be communicated, and this is done by juxtaposing one's learned experiences with the knowledge and themes found in literature.