I’m in a process of becoming a complete reader of Fyodor Dostoevsky. I can’t write anything if I cannot fulfill that mission. As a human being, as a reader, as an addicted student who always observes his teacher in a direct manner or in a something rude way. I chose my role models already. The list is not that long but all these people have never been in my life yet there is this massive impact on my soul because of these strangers. My close ones never gave me that in a spiritual way and in a philosophical way at the same time. So I’m on my way to completing my quest to know more about Dostoevsky’s art. His vision and the truth.
Before him, I already finished Murakami Haruki, Jack London, Knut Hamsun, George Orwell, Albert Camus, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Edogawa Ranpo, Dante Alighieri, and Charles Dickens.
To cover all these great writers I cannot imagine how many beers and cups of coffee I drank. Before these fellas, I was a virgin teenager with clear white skin with no acne and thinks that cigarette is no good. But after I read their art I became to realize I was living in a falsehood, a very beautiful lie that put in my mind. I thought I was a genius before them. I thought I know my piece of knowledge to help me through to become a well-respected intellectual. Believe it or not, if I didn’t suffocate in my bed every night reading their words, pointing my flashlight to read the lines from them, saying that humankind never had it from the beginning and you’re merely just part of it. The only reason that builds a genuine or a genius man, a man who really has a tendency to say something is constant pain and suffering. Not pleasure or joy and happiness. Not someone’s praise that said someday people will pay to listen to your words, goddammit. These sinful people envied me because their intention was to spoil me. First I thought it was unintentional. But they knew in the first place because they never had it too. So nothing really overcome Newton’s gravitational law that stated big object attracts little ones.
Fortunately, now I understand my true purpose. I need to read. That is the only reason, a pure transcendent paradise. Even if I have to read my books during work time and my boss saying complaints. Even if I have to read my books in a club full of hot young women with their tits out. Even if I have to read my books when I am in a state of hallucination because I had a lot of drugs. I will overcome all the shit. Then I will overjoy that constant pain and suffering because from that moment on I really learned something. That life is beautiful and ugly at the same time.
