expectations in the time of tender nights

i love written word. literature. novels. poetry. sometimes plays and often songs. this is, unfortunately, not a portrayal of myself, and i often find disgust in the fact that i have yet to write something of any significance.

however, that has never stopped me from projecting and living vicariously through the novels i read. ultimately, this has lead me to draw from, and relate to many, if not all the things i read. it is humorous how readily one, such as i, can see oneself in characters detached entirely from reality, but i believe that fiction is the best salve for non-mortal wounds. and i hope, one day, i can meet someone with similar passion, because what is now left a vestigial hope of defining a soulmate, lingers on as promise of a clear and present sign.

in any case, my reading is not extensive. i would wish to have read more but i have slowly come to terms that this is not feasible - there are too many fronts in life to pursue to warrant sacrificing more important things for the time being (which is a thorough-hearted, sinful promise to myself that one day, when the dust has settled, i will indulge in reading to my fullest content. but today is definitely not that day).

with each changing emotion, i refine this list of novels that define and represent me, and for the past few years, here are the top 3 books that, if i had to hand to someone to read to describe myself, would be:

1. great expectations, by dickens.
2. love in the time of cholera by gabriel garcia marquez.
3. tender is the night by fitzgerald.

a slight amendment i would make is that, unlike how fermina and florentino are actually (initially) in love, substitute for how werther falls for someone already married, as per goethe's work of said name.

and you thought a young man bereft of love was a pitiful sight!