an emotional crisis caused by rereading a book (that i loved)
I know that autumn is not yet here, but these first few cool days of August fill me with relief and longing each time they arrive. I fall for it every time. It's even more intense than usual this time. I'm homesick for a place that doesn't exist, I'm nostalgic for memories I've never lived. My present self never fails to discredit the pain I've felt in the past. I know this, and yet I torture myself with wondering how things could have gone, if I was better.
This time seven years ago, I was supposed to be reading The Left Hand of Darkness in preparation for my first year at college. It was assigned summer reading for the entire incoming freshman class. I remember laying in my dorm room bunk bed shortly after moving in, trying to read through it as fast as I could before the first day of classes. I have no memory of what I actually read, I don't even know if I properly finished it. What was I doing? I was too busy scrolling twitter and talking to people on the internet about shitty punk bands and anarchism to extend any intellectual curiosity towards the novel. Le Guin's philosophies probably would have resonated with my own at the time, had I been willing to put in the effort. I remember participating in class discussions. I don't remember what I said. I remember one of my classmates gushing about his love for the novel's deuteragonist, Estraven, his delight at the story's central queer relationship. We could have connected over this, had I been willing to put in the effort.
I reread The Left Hand of Darkness last week. It did not feel like rereading. It felt like I was reading the novel for the very first time. I remembered almost nothing, aside from a vague recollection of the companionship between the two main characters, and the premise of an androgynous people. I did not remember how it ended. The heartbreak I felt was fresh. Since finishing, I haven't been able to get the novel out of my thoughts; the elements I appreciated, that I think are incredible, as well as my uncertainties, discomfort and critiques. I loved it. I loved it, and now I am overwhelmed with a ridiculous sounding sense of grief (or perhaps magical thinking that if I had brought this attitude to my first year of college things might have gone differently).
Autumn is approaching and I just read The Left Hand of Darkness and I miss the ocean, I miss those islands in the Atlantic. I'm stuck in the past, thinking about all the ideas I could have shared with my classmates, the perspectives I could have heard, the connections I could have formed. The cool and salty sea air I could be breathing in now if I hadn't given up on my dream of marine biology. The legitimate reasons for my distress and decision to drop out of that college have been fully overshadowed by my flimsy regrets, the ways in which I know I could have been better if had I tried. When I tell people that I'm happier now, older and wiser at my present university than I ever was at my old one, I know that I am telling the truth. But it's just so hard for me to believe.
I still live on an island, as I did back then. I've lived here for three years. It's the longest I've lived in one place since I was fifteen, when my life was uprooted by psychiatric institutionalization. Whenever I toy with the idea of moving elsewhere, I quickly remember how much I think I would miss this city if I moved away. I still feel like an outsider here. I don't quite know if it's home.
This city is surrounded by water. I never feel like I can reach it. It's blocked off by high rises, roads and railways, and by the time I reach it it's already run far from me. The ocean at least kept me company on all my miserable nights in Maine.
On the fictional world of Gethen, the year is always one. Living in the present is institutionally enforced by the calendar. Estraven the traitor fails to abide by this natural law. His--their life, their relationships, are ruled by the past. It interrupts their capacity for intimacy in the present. But Estraven stands out too, for their ability to think of the future.
This summer has been miserable for me in many ways. I'm not a particularly motivated, disciplined, or ambitious person, it's difficult for me to direct myself without external enforcement. Committing myself to a research project, a seminar class, and a part time job has made me miserable. I haven't been able to devote sufficient time and energy to any one part, creating an endless cycle of guilt that makes it even more difficult for me to do the things I know I need to be doing. I don't know how I'm going to manage the work required for my thesis this upcoming year. I want to give up.
As much as I love fiction, I'm not nearly as well read as I should be, as I wish I was. Still, I can confidently say that The Left Hand of Darkness is now one of my favourite books. It is also incredibly flawed. Seven years ago, I wanted all of my fiction to be neat and flawless. This no longer interests me. I am now fascinated by the ways in which stories are flawed. Their flaws become parts of the story, and the story becomes a conversation between myself and the author. I listen to their insights, I silently voice my disagreements, I'm left feeling conflicted, joyful and uneasy, connected and alone. I have found that this is a significantly more fulfilling way to engage with fiction.
When I was seventeen and still considered myself an anarchist, I may have found myself even more aligned with Le Guin's works on account of our shared politics. But I'm happier that this novel has the attention of my present self. I might not have the stage of a classroom for discussing the novel, but I have friends to share my thoughts with. I can write this disjointed essay to deal with the emotional crisis that rereading the book has caused me.
I expected my first college to be flawless. It wasn't, and I hated it, and now I miss it in so many ways, a cruel trick of time and faulty memory. I never expected my current university to be flawless, and I've enjoyed my time here so much more because of that acceptance. In the same way that I hate my past self for failing to engage with The Left Hand of Darkness at the time, I think my future self will hate the person I am now if I give up on my thesis. It's okay if it's flawed.