Words: Who needs 'em?

As I slopped myself into my bed last night and covered myself up, I realized I wanted to read. I knelt up, leaned into my bookshelf and grabbed Herman Hesse's The Journey to the East; I began rereading the excellent book from the beginning.

I threw my head back into the pillow and covered my face with the book after reading:

- ..."Words do not express thoughts very well; everything immediately becomes a little different, a little distorted, a little foolish. And yet it also pleases me and seems right that what is of value and wisdom to one man seems nonsense to another."

To a writer of both fiction and nonfiction this strikes a deep, muscle-y chord; in a Monty Python death scene kind of way, one yells "S'TRUTH!" and keels over in cinematic fashion, grabbing their own heart.

Why do I have to go to bed like this?

Then I continue reading to discover:

He who travels far will often see things
Far removed from what he believed was Truth.
When he talks about it in the fields at home,
He is often accused of lying,
For the obdurate people will not believe
What they do not see and distinctly feel.
Inexperience, I believe,
Will give little credence to my song.

To which, I tossed the book beside my bed with the others (MAO, on which rests my alarm clock, The Road to Wigan Pier, which is a library book and consequently ill-treated, yesterday's paper, and a pencil-scrawl goodbye note I woke up to, written by a seldom-seen party-goer with whom I was hanging out and feeding hashbrowns to, before I went to bed on Friday), leaned back, and let my head explode into slumber.

NB - ob·du·rate: Hardened against feeling; hardhearted: an obdurate miser.