I didn’t touch Jean-Christophe for a while due to exams. Today, I opened it again while passing the time by the river.
What a book this is and the things it does to me. I’m so grateful to the author for having written it and for the fact that it is three volumes of 600 pages each. I love, love this book.
I love it so much I feel our identities with the titular character are merging. I read it for 4 hours today and it has left a distinct mark on my mood and character. I’m highly strung and in a rather ‘passionate’ mood. I want to kick stuff, run around wildly, argue with someone or do anything that corresponds to the torrent of life that this book evoke.
Not the calm connectedness of my last post, with its pastoral tranquility, but a tempest of the heart. A wild, wild thing.
The joys of being a highly sensitive empath. I must ration my consumption of this novel. Right now, it has left me with a feeling that I experienced all these things myself, the tumultuous ups and downs of Jean-Christophe’s life. And I feel exhausted emotionally. And his neuroticism and passion have fused with my recently calmer moods and re-awoken the old haunts of the mind.
What a mood, what a mood. I wish I could take someone along who shared my intoxication (for life, art, or beauty) and we could drive off to some pretty private spot and read poetry. And throw dandelions in the air.