Walking around a favourite book shop a while ago, my eyes were drawn to an island of calm, a rectangle of white amidst a clamour of colour, a haven for over-stimulated rods and cones. Its title did not blare out, but had to be sought with questing fingers, titling the cover gently through the light.
Quiet.
Seemingly a thoughtful book and it called to me.
Reading it has taken time and I am still only just over halfway through - it can not be rushed. I may not finish it, as it has a fine sandpaper effect and what it reveals may not be jewels, but dross.
At one point there was a discussion about empathy and although we must be equally empathic for both the happy and unhappy event, the sad times seem to leap to the fore. I was reminded of a television series many moons ago called The Martian Chronicles, adapted from short stories by Mr. Bradbury (I want to say Malcolm, but of course it is Ray). One I particularly remember was about the last Martian left on the planet, who lived with an elderly couple (Earthling settlers). Although they thought he was their long-lost son, this was not a problem and all were happy, until there was a family outing to a nearby town. Their 'son' got lost in the crowds and became confused, disorientated. People in the crowd noticed and then 'recognised' him. Their daughter, a friend, a parent, someone they had left back on Earth.
The Martian was an empath. He twisted and turned, trying to deal with all the emotional demands that surrounded him and because his race had no instinctive filters, found it unbearable. He was truly the last of his race.
So the white book has been put to one side and I am cheering myself with some T.P., an author who is to the brain what rice pudding is to the tummy - a spiritual duvet!
