Is it possible to work out a personal identity issue by repeatedly reading a story that asks the same questions, outlines the same journey? And when that story leaves off with no answer?
I am drawn to re-read the same novel almost compulsively, as if somehow through the story’s introduction-development-denouement, I will somehow find my own path.
So far, nothing. Except for a sort of growing malaise as I realize that my reasons for coming back to this book over and over again are less about the literary merit (which, I must say, the book certainly has) than a sort of enmeshment with the female protagonist.
When I have more time for reflection, I will write more. About the book, about myself, and about the pieces of my identity that I am currently experiencing as a kind of conflict.
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