For the most part, I like getting older. With each passing year, I bridge the gap between the person that I am and the person that I wanted to be; feel like I'm closer to living the life I'd always dreamed of having.
But sometimes, when I pick up a new novel and then put it down some 300-odd pages later, I feel a sense of nostalgia. That thrilling feeling of discovering a new writer, of reading something that blows the top of your head off, gets more and more rare the older I get. It isn't that there isn't great literature being written today — of course there is. It's just that some part of me has aged, gotten weary, even jaded. Individual lines and passages can still take my breath away and a perfectly crafted ending can still make me burst into tears.
But oh, how I miss that old sense of being transported by a book, that sense of ownership and possessiveness that one felt when one discovered a writer for the first time. Discovering a new book or writer was like discovering a new planet — suddenly, you had to throw away all the old knowledge you