Learning to ask, why.

“He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

A few hours at a book store generally leaves me exhausted. On most occasions I walk in with no agenda, wander the aisles, read the titles, rearrange a few books, make random draws, flip through pages, read some, dust a few others, pretend to have found writing that interests me, sit down, read some more, wander the aisles, and make random draws. The final pick may seem like a deliberate result of this long and seemingly methodical process, but it almost always is not. Sometimes I'd find the titles that have been on my to-read list forever - ones that made it to the list after hours spent reading reviews and excerpts. And, yet, I'd leave them behind and pick something that I may as well have liked for the author's quirky intro, the book cover or the title font!

When I picked Ma, He Sold Me For A Few Cigarettes, it was intuitive. I had heard of neither the book nor the author before. I probably picked it from the shelf for it's name. That it was stacked among memoirs was an incentive - and the title had tickled my curiosity. I hadn't seen the cover until I'd drawn it out. When I started reading, I liked the indeginous voice and colloquial style of writing. I knew it could turn out to be intense and may be even depressing. When I made the pick, I did not evaluate the rationale behind it, I went with my gut. This isn't the first time I have been drawn to narratives of individual struggles or social atrocities, but this is the first time that I've asked myself, why.

What makes people do wrong - do they not see what the society sees?; where do people find the strength to fight and never give up even when there are more reasons to give up than not - do they not tire of this constant struggle?; are people ever bad, or their circumstances poorly dealt with, resulting in poorly thought actions? - in life these are questions one struggles to find absolute answers for. Often there are no back stories offered, and the characters are sketchy. We construct more hypotheses and jump to 'dealing with the situation' than understanding the motivations. I find it amusing how a writer carefully constructs the premise- for the plot and its characters- and makes it convincing for the reader. Oftentimes in life we are happy to leave things in the obscure.

Things that mostly seem uncomfortable and grim, it takes enormous strength and insight to even attempt to understand or describe it, let alone live through. And, in my heart, anyone who has ever tried to do either has earned my respect. And few among them, a place on my book shelf.