/lit/ - Literature

All living things - plants, animals and people - deserve our love, our care and our protection. This verdant conviction pronounces itself from every light-hearted heart - as we can see in children, who know about life and death but are not pained by the inner turmoils that we suffer, knowing what they know. Moments of happiness are, at the same time, moments of a sort of parenthood of all living things. Even a pebble is sometimes treated with a benevolent courtesy, as if the child wanted to avoid meddling - without being asked - in the individual rhythm of the stone, its neighborhood and growth. Tread lightly, friends.

Years of being a loner shut-in have taken their toll and my perception has inverted to where the world of stories and fantasy feels more real to me than the material world. (I don't mean the spectacle of instagram and newsmedia, the world-as-appearance is a world of images yes but it is still a perversion of the real, the world I speak of is a simulacrum, the hyperreal). I took a trip recently, in every way it failed to measure up to the trips taken in the stories I have read. All aspects of my life are like this. The only time my experiences measure up to the imagined one is when I situate the real into the a story and externalize it from myself, e.g., instead of standing in the station waiting for the train Anon, a character, is standing in the station waiting for the time. From this externalization I can derive aesthetic satisfaction.

Are there any books that address this?