reach and grasp

I want reassurance of my own existence.

So I finally read the book that I wish had been available when I first gave up the pretence of faith. Reading it years after falling off the wagon, it’s caused me a small existential crisis. I know you guys prefer pictures and stories of the north, but sometimes being in the north means getting tired and staying home reading all weekend. And apparently, occasionally, this reading opens up a pit at your feet. And once in a while you fall in for a few hours. The book in question is nothing to be frightened of by Julian Barnes. I thought it would be a light, comforting book about death (yeah, that does sound a little bit funny now) but instead in the first pages the author makes it clear that he doesn’t intend that there is no reason to be frightened. That would be too comfy. What he means is that in order to die well you need to come to terms with your own annihilation.

Wanting to believe in an afterlife probably kept me in the fold longer than I would have stayed if Christianity didn’t offer such a promise. It’s still the saddest part of atheism. I’d like my life to go on and on forever, explore the whole world. Imagine – if I live long enough, I might someday get to tour the middle east without having to cover my hair. Doesn’t seem like the world is cleaning itself up though. It’s getting messier. I am discouraged. I would rather not be extinguished. I agree with Barnes' soppy words: I don't believe in God, but I miss Him. I agree that they are soppy.

This might put an end to my habit of buying books I’ve heard about on the CBC. It probably won’t.