I am reading The Monkey Wrench Gang by Edward Abbey on the heels of finishing The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. Roy's novel has not loosened its grip on me, and I still cannot understand why it took me so long to read it. I'm not referring to the length of time it took between beginning and completing the book, I'm talking about the time it took for me to actually select the book from the proverbial shelf and crack it open. It is so gorgeous and devastating, and if you try to explain this to anyone who hasn't read it, if you even try to break down the generalities of it (characters, themes, events), it ends up sounding like a soap opera. Which is absolutely not the case. It is the furthest thing from a soap opera. But it feels big, epic, loud in its insight and intelligence. This is is why I love literature, why I feel devoted to it: it reminds you of how small you are. For example, as I was sitting on the cushy leather couch in my analyst's office this morning, I couldn't stop thinking about Roy's novel. The tremendous sadness. The heaviness of those hearts. The profundity of her questions. The incredibly stunning beauty she teases out at every turn. Yes, perhaps this is a gross illustration of the bourgeois use of literature. The fact that I include the word 'use.' The fact that pain, even fictional pain, could be used for my own 'healing' purposes. But in any case, this is one of the ways in which literature truly serves. It evokes feelings that might otherwise be muffled, and it illuminates the dark corners of the human mind. It provides a sort of private experience that can have very real, social repercussions. The God of Small Things makes me feel grateful. I need to feel grateful more often. Again, there is the literary theorist of a certain self-conscious school in me who scowls: what the hell does reading have to do with feeling? But feelings make up most of the world, feelings take up a lot of space. I do a lot of it. Somewhat shamefully, but I do. Shame is a feeling, too, isn't it?