a condensed library part III

The Upanishads translated by Eknath Easwaran.

You are what your deep, driving desire is.

As your desire is, so is your will.

As your will is, so is your deed.

As your deed is, so is your destiny.

Brihadaranyaka IV.4.5

Even if I can't commit to believing in a divine being, I am completely convinced of the ability of each of us to be divine on our own. That there is a greater consciousness waiting to be woken, and a great peace within us all. 

Never in my sarcastic, wasteful, nihilistic youth did I ever imagine that that would be the case. It took me years and countless readings to appreciate the beauty of what is being said in these texts. Though the fact that I was always compelled to revisit them says something for itself. 

This is another book that was recommended by a friend. Someone who knows my mind (and it's potential for embracing new ideas) startlingly well given how quickly the friendship formed, and then was stalled by distance. 

Every time I re-read this, or even just flip through and visit favorite passages, makes me think of him and smile. That he saw something in me that could love this, and that has come true. Even if I can't always appreciate the sentiment of what is being said, there is still a grace in the rhythm of the words, and for that reason alone it could have become a constant favorite. 

When all desires that surge in the heart

Are renounced, the mortal becomes immortal.

When all the knots that strangle the heart

Are loosened, the mortal becomes immortal.

This sums up the teaching of the scriptures.

Kartha II.3.14-15

a condensed library part II

Wheat Field with Cornflowers - Vincent van Gogh

A Room with a View. Forever and always.
Because Lucy Honeychurch is the perfect heroine. Because even through a book Italy is glorious. Because there are no jewels more becoming a lady than flowers. And because:
"She oughtn't really to go at all,' said Mr. Beebe, as they watched her from the window, 'and she knows it. I put it down to too much Beethoven."

a condensed library

Woman Walking in an Exotic Landscape - Henri Rousseau

There has been no question in my mind that I would be taking books along with me. They do add an ample bit of weight to my bag, but sometimes frivolity is just what you need. Back me up on this one, Al.
One Hundred Years of Solitude was perhaps the first book I ever determined to read solely at the recommendation of somebody else. People tend to be generous with their words, but when someone you love and admire actually hands you their beloved copy, you take note and get down to business. This one was not easy to get into. Every other character has the same name (or so it seems), lives and relationships quickly become too complicated and intertwined to follow without resorting to Cornell notes, and nothing seems to move linearly. Just when I had about given up, something hooked itself deep in my mind, and the story was alive. Forgetting the big picture of a multi-generational family, my focus shifted to each individual's tale. For me, this was almost a book of short stories with quick flashes of recognition. Fernanda! That troublemaker. I'd peel the walls and eat dirt with you anytime Rebeca. Poor, poor Pietro Crespi. Always in love with the wrong girl. And my eternal favorite, Melquíades.
I'll freely admit to crying when I closed the back cover on this one. For the fact that it was over, and the perfectly heartbreaking ending. Knowing where I'm headed, and that it might at times be trying, this is just the thing to hide away in. A world where a deluge of yellow flowers isn't strange, its just one more thing to sweep off the front steps.