"Notes from a Dead House"

...a book by Fyodor Dostoyevsky which I borrowed from the Safa Public Library three weeks ago. Let me share with you some of the morsels of thought that I have noted down...

"How many thousands of days had I to pass like this, and all of them exactly alike!" (Very well said!!!)

"I began to dream of freedom from the first day of my imprisonment. My favorite occupation was counting the days that were left a thousand different times in a thousand different ways... Every convict feels that he is not at home, but merely a transient visitor." (Yet, perhaps the transient nature of life is what makes it more beautiful.)

"The anguish of the first year in prison made me irritable and bitter and I could not notice many of the things around me. I shut my eyes and refused to look. I could not see the good people capable of thinking and feeling in spite of the repulsive crust that covered them on the surface. I overlooked the kind and affectionate word among the jeers, the word which was all the dearer because spoken in sincerity and often springing from a heart that had borne and suffered more than mine." (Yeah, and I used to think that my "sufferings" were unbearable!)

"When I said goodbye, I was not too sorry because I was sure that my head was to stay on my shoulders and continue the journey with me." (Life goes on!)

and at the last chapter of the book...

"My memories of later years have faded somewhat, and I am sure that I have completely forgotten many things. I only remember that one year, which was so like the other, dragged on sluggishly and bleakly. I remember that the long days were as monotonous as water dripping from the roof. And I also remember that only my longing for resurrection gave me the strength to hope and wait. Finally, I found the strength of resignation: I waited counting the days and though a thousand of them remained, it was with real delight that I ticked them off and saw them buried in the past. And when the new day dawned, I rejoiced at the thought that now there were not a thousand left, but only nine hundred and ninety nine. I was alone, though I had hundreds of companions, and came to love my solitude at last. In my mental solitude, I reviewed every detail of my life, sternly judged my actions, and even blessed my fate at some moments for having sent me such solitude... I reflected, resolved, I swore to myself that the mistakes and lapses of the past would never again occur. I mapped out a course for the future and decided to follow it faithfully. A blind faith was born in me that I could and would fulfill it all. How I longed for freedom and cried for it to come quickly. I wanted to try my strength in a new struggle..."

Ah, I feel so grateful that I'm not in prison!

But then, how come these lines have moved me deeply?

Is it because through these written words, an intangible substance within was given its form? Just a thought.

Well, the good thing is...

Now, I find my circumstances more bearable because I know things could get worse.

Ah, there's a better way of putting it--my soul has been purged. Just a bit.