Reasons I Prefer Reading Over Talking

My mouth contorts, fighting not to make an expression of pure revulsion or to outright gag while I force this beer down. I’ve never been able to stomach beer, but I feel this momentous occasion demands that I follow suit and have what he’s having. I feel my insides turn as the beer goes down and realize I’ve also been holding my breath. Whether this is from the strain of drinking or the excitement of somehow talking to Hermann Hesse is impossible to say. With careful attention I slowly release a deep exhale. Soften. Relax.

He knows all the most profound secrets to life, I’m sure. Everything I’ve been looking for is here within my reach, if I can only act natural, drink this damn beer, and maintain a conversation like a normal human.

Unfortunately, I am a terrible conversationalist and this frail old man is keeping awfully tight lipped. If you had asked me what I expected of this meeting I would have told you that I thought this would be a philosophical dialogue. I thought he would lead me eloquently through the defenses of my own mind; all the obstructions holding me back from true enlightenment would break down before his comprehensive yet concise insights to the true nature of the Self.

Slightly hunched over his glass, he takes a slow sip and gazes into the fire. The tavern is dimly lit and doesn't seem to have many light sources beyond the fireplace that we're seated around. I can feel the movement of the coil springs beneath me with each shift I make in this threadbare armchair that smells vaguely of mothballs. I lean forward and follow his gaze into the crackling flames. This is it, I think. Just like in Demian, we’re gazing into the fire, ready for a profound shift in understanding as we discuss the complexities of life, authenticity, the Self.

The flickering light of the fire is casting odd shadows across his form, and I notice the subtle change in posture that occurs the moment he becomes aware of me staring at him so expectantly. With only vague interest, he asks why I’m watching him.

I stammer out awkwardly, “Oh...uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. I mean, I was just hoping to hear something, uh, some elucidating thoughts from you I guess. I’m, um, just a really big fan of your books so...”

Trailing off into silence, I feel warmth in my face as the color rushes up to my cheeks, but I convince myself it is only the heat of the fire. I look down in embarrassment, trying my best to be casual and hoping he won’t notice how awkward I feel. I can smell the smoke from the fire, that comforting aroma that always recalls a nostalgia for home. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent, and then look back up to check his reaction, again feigning a casual air.

He smiles to himself as though enjoying a private joke, but all he does is look back to the flames. He is comfortably ensconced in his own rather plumper armchair, at ease. No words are forthcoming.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I blunder on, “So, I guess that’s the point though right? No one else can tell you or explain what it means, what you write about...you have to, like, find it in yourself.”

Utterly bewildered by my own clumsy words, I listen to my flimsy attempts at conversation as though from outside my own body, watching a helpless stranger. If this is a dream, might as well.

Briefly glancing in my direction, he mercifully cuts off my babbling, “You’re trying too hard. Just relax.”

I laugh nervously and force down another gulp of the beer before settling into silence. I look into the fire. I am no more enlightened now then I was before, only sufficiently embarrassed and a tad sick from the beer. I’ve got a few more of his books at home to read, maybe I’ll glean the answers I seek from the pages instead. Perhaps I’ll just reread Siddhartha for the millionth time.

I suppose this is why I like reading books better than talking to people.