Density. No air.

February 17th, 2025

The density of words and thoughts in this book took away my ability to breathe involuntarily. Or breathe at all. I needed to be keenly aware of my breathing while reading this book. And had to take repeated breaks, just to catch my breath. And still, I couldn't keep up with sentences that build their way through a maze of disconnected or repeated thoughts. Any and all sentences in this book are like that. There are no easy sentences there. And the individual sentences usually stretch for pages. I know it is just a literary style of stream of consciousness. But that consciousness seems wrong. Seems completely beyond what I consider normal. Maybe that is the point. And maybe my mind — as much as it bothers me with its obsessions and autistic demands — is tamely ordinary in comparison to the one possessed and presented by the author.

With such a density of words, it is easy to lose the idea of the book. The main point seems easy to grasp, but with each sentence something gets muddled. And now, I am not sure what that point was. Or if there really was a point. Maybe there were just numerous paths that seemed to lead somewhere, but in the end, they all just faded into a whimper of impotence and regret — like all the thoughts we have. One thing is clear to me thought — having an idea is dangerous. Any idea can be dangerous. That is why we need to be very careful about the ideas we entertain. Being certain of an idea is a sure way into madness. And if that madness only takes us along, that is bearable. But if someone other has to suffer as well, then the deepest hell awaits. As long as the perpetrator is conscious of it. And in this book, the hyper consciousness is so dense that there is no air left for us to breathe.