Making the discovery of this tiny pocketbook relic seemed to be destiny. If I believed in that kind of thing. It would be so easy to chalk it up to a thing like destiny, rather than the reality of cruel chance. I almost didn't even buy it, despite earlier saying I knew I had to have it. After I'd decided to make the purchase, I knew it was the right choice, but I was torn up until a certain point, which seems ludicrous now.
I've been online looking for copies to buy for people I know who need it in their lives.
It turns out that I'm the kind of person who thinks that everyone has the ability to have their world drastically altered by reading something.
What that something is will be different from person to person, and the timing of that reading must also be special, but the fact remains: it is possible. That's my belief, anyway.
Huxley did it for me years ago, and Baudelaire has done it again, only I can't say for sure how.
My writing art-projects list looks inexhaustible, but now I feel indefatigable. And that may be the lasting effect for me with this "discovery."
I need my boy to see. I need him to know how much work it is to do something for art, out of love, how timeless it is to say something about the human experience, how vital and necessary it remains. He needs to know and to see.
Baudelaire told me so.
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