Hungry Ghost's Daily Diet (TM)

Five pages. That's all it took. Five pages of The Enchantress of FLorence and I'm done for. Sleep is all but a mere figment of my imagination now.

Take for example this passage describing how the Palace of Memory has her life, and her own memories returned to her, and how the tragedy of her life relived causes her to join her dead, brutally murdered brothers and escape the inescapable bleakness of her future. She runs, and she jumps through a window to oblivion. The imagery is to die for.

To be part of the dead world it was necessary that you die as well. It was necessary that you run as fast as possible until you reached the edge between the worlds and then you didn't stop you ran on across that border as if it wasn't there as if glass was air and air was glass, the air shattering around you like glass as you fell. The air slicing you to pieces as if it were a blade. It was good to fall. It was good to fall out of life. It was good.

This book, this novel, this revelation of men's desires, aspirations and failings conjures up images in my head that swirl about in an immense river of fact, feeling, myth, and perceived futures that could have been. It's overwhelming, and I jump from thought to thought and can't sleep. The chattering of the Emperor's harems, the story telling, the spell-weaving of the witches take root and all else becomes irrelevant.

I have to stop myself reading the next chapter once I finish one. It's like drinking a a delicious hot cup of pure black coffee - untainted with cream or sugar. I have to keep putting the cup down for fear of finishing it too quickly.

There is a man who's reached the middle of his 22nd year in this world, and as he prepares to leave the last of his childhood behind, he smells the first whiff of mortality. He feels the first stirrings of doubts. None of this matters to him for he is still more youth than man. He will be enchanted once, then a second time; both times, the sorceress who cast their spells will break it. Both times he will be plunged into despair by the treachery of the shadowy lovers who love until they don't, until they have their fill of what he has to give. In the devastation of their abandonment, he will forget the curative powers of hope, the aspirations of his youth and what it means to live. The scent of mortality will become increasingly pungent, his doubts will grow, and his trust in others will diminish. While this will render him less susceptible to sorcery and enchantment, it will also lessen his ardour for life. There is a balance that must be struck, and the question is whether he will find the fulcrum point in time. There is no life when spellbound; you do not live your life, but that of another. Likewise in the depths of despair, you succumb to your fears, and they do not constitute suitable life for men. However, balance the two out so they hold each other in check, and you will learn who you are, and what you are meant for.

It's now 1am. To bed, better than last night. And tomorrow is a day free of meetings so I can pull another OWaH.