The more I realize the futility of the pursuit of the beauty I had been promised in my first glance, the more tired I grow. The thirst for beauty and depth and the necessity for communication don’t matter anymore.
I read Great Expectations for the first time when I was 17, unhappily and unrequitedly in love and unsure of the consequences. It was not the greatness of love or pain or youth or life that I came to understand, but the illusions of that greatness, and its eventual departure. It is better to be 17 and disillusioned and frustrated with life than to be 40 and discover that all one has struggled for in life amount to nothing. Or, is it?
We suffer, and we suffer alone. We suffer our greatness.
May be I’ll read it again someday, and stop liking it. But for now, I am young, and the miseries and the struggles of youth that Dickens talks about, and the satisfaction of it, strengthen my conviction to overcome my own doubts.
I think, for me, the end of my youth will be the end of Dickens, and I’ll not read him again till I’m old enough to admit that he had seen through the vacuities of my life when he talked about Pip.