It’s fading. The beauty of spring will soon be just a memory. Notwithstanding last week’s rain, the beautiful wildflowers are wilting, slowly relinquishing their glory. They are wise – before the burning breath of summer reaches these shores, they will be just a hazy, if colourful, memory of what was and what will be. I think I could learn to like summer if the wild flowers bloomed. But in the face of such extreme odds, they return to the earth from which they sprung and nurture the seed of life till the rains return once more.
And I, I am a bit like the spring flowers for, unlike the rest of my countrymen (and women) who seem to spend their lives outdoors during the summer months, I tend to hibernate, cocooning myself in the relative coolness of our home and only venturing outdoors in the sunlight if I absolutely have to. With time to kill, I pick up my books and call them friends.
Despite the longish into, I suppose you can say that my post picks up where this one by Suze left off. It is funny, sometimes, how the subconscious of one person seems to be in line with that of another during the same period of time. Or maybe it’s because we are all preoccupied with the same things. I have long wondered what it is that makes us pick one author over another; one blog over another. Of course, most times it is the story that draws me in. But I find that it is usually the style of writing that hooks me. Good plots and storytellers aside, I think I am most drawn to those authors who bleed their hearts out on the page; whose prose rips them asunder. Writers whose words transcend time; whose passion captures the imagination of generations.
This summer I plan to delve into the works of some writers that I have never read before. I have the following line-up in mind: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Sylvia Plath, Paulo Coelho. I would love your thoughts, if any, on these writers. Are they worth the many summer hours I will spend poring over them? Or should I just go outside and battle the pesky mosquitoes?