I worked late today. This morning, after the "monitoring" meeting with a city officer, I went to AEON and started reading Levy Hideo's paperback "Japanese Language's Victory [リービ英雄『日本語の勝利／アイデンティティーズ』]", but couldn't concentrate enough onto it. Therefore, I quit reading for a while and started thinking about various things as usual. For example, I asked to myself "Is life funny for me?" etc.
The ex-admin of my group home (who was at that meeting with us) said I was speaking clearly. But, even now I can't have any confidence about that because the city officer could have misunderstood what I said. Are these kinds of doubts just a waste of time? Maybe... but, this autistic, strange brain tends to think about these ideas so strictly.
One of the things I had thought about was this - How can I find my personal, precious great books? I admit that as Levy Hideo says there must have been several great Japanese authors. However, maybe because I am not already so young my senses have been worn out, they are attracted to various "classical" books such as Souseki Natsume. TBH, recently I have not been attracted to any novels (but I believe modern authors must have been writing their truly great masterpieces... I couldn't have followed/found any of that), but just to read various non-fictions.
After thinking about those things, I went to the bookstore in AEON to buy Souseki Natsume's novel, "Kokoro" to enjoy the book club event on a server on Discord. When I was a high school student, I read this masterpiece. At that time, however, I couldn't get into this novel's profound world because I was too young (at that time, I was just a young and immature kid who had been attracted to Haruki Murakami).
Am I still young (at least, at heart)? I try to ask this to myself. When I was literally young, I even felt that being young could mean just being immature or innocent. In a way, when I was in my 20s, I wanted to become older mentally. At my young period, there was no guidance for me to become an adult. Then, how about now? Now, could I have become a kind of "The Catcher In The Rye" as Saringer's evergreen, everlasting novel? I wish so... although, I have to admit my senses are currently getting older actually. Oh, Life sucks!
