Literary love can be fleeting. There are flings, friendships, and one night stands. I’m in the middle of a fling with Charles Bukowski’s poetry. We’ll see what it turns into, but I think it could turn into a longstanding friendship. Palahniuk and I are getting to know each other. I’m liking what I read so far, but we’ll see if it goes anywhere.
The Twilight series was a one night stand. And I don’t want to talk about it…
But then there’s real literary passion. Not passion for an author. But an intense passion for their work. Something that resonates with you on every level. Something that describes your feelings in a way you never thought you could.
No matter what I’m feeling, he’s already felt it. He’s already described it. He’s already put the lines together for me, and left the perfect amount of space for me to insert my own meaning and feelings. He doesn’t urge me to feel what he feels. He allows me to feel what I feel with his words. That, to me, is exceptional poetry. Nothing else has come close yet.
There have been others, of course. I could never forget my first literary heroine J.K. Rowling. And my admiration for Tolstoy will never fade.
But Pablo is just different.
Love, hurt, alone, or joyous, Neruda has words for whatever it is I’m feeling. Learning about the intentions of his poetry is great. But it’s not necessary. His intention adds meaning but doesn’t create it.
Some of my personal favorites:
“If You Forget Me”
“Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines”
“Here I Love You”
“Carnal Apple, Woman Filled, Burning Moon”
To name just a few…