The Allure of Sadness

The torrential downpour has been hammering ceaselessly since I woke up this morning and the streets have become shallow rivers. I am so used to the sweltering heat of July that the feeling of the cool breeze caressing my skin seems almost bizarre. In the next few months, I probably won’t be so excited about the rain because it will be as annoying as those ubiquitous pharmaceutical commercials online. But for now, it is such salvation from the suffocating summer heat that I find myself staring at the window with a goofy smile plastered on my face. I have been in a reading slump for days but this ambience just really puts me in the mood again. Being the adventurous reader I am, I decide to indulge in some “comfort food,” aka reread my favourite books. After thoroughly ransacking my bookcase, it suddenly dawns upon me that the majority of my favourite books are, indeed, quite sad. And this “epiphany” really makes the hamster wheel in my brain spin.

I think the main reason I often gravitate towards sad books is that they make me feel. It’s not that I am dead inside or incapable of expressing emotions, but sometimes I have to tone down my emotions to be able to fit into certain social expectations and cultural norms. So those books are an effective source of emotional outlet since they allow me to grapple with my struggles. Isn't it therapeutic to have a good cry without experiencing those heart-wrenching pain myself? (And it's also a nice excuse for my indulgence in ice cream and brownies).

There is a line in one of Franz Kafka's letters to Milena that said, "You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love." To this day, I vividly remember the impact these words had on me the first time I read them. Back then, I did not understand the magnitude and depth of love (and now neither do I), but that line haunted me for days. I remembered scribbling those words on random textbooks and notebooks (and I might or might not have written them on the table at school as well, sorry Mr Principal). As an angsty teenager, I dreamt of fervent love, of passion so intense that destruction appears to be the only way to conserve it. Since my department of love for human beings has been empty (for quite a while), I suppose I just pour all my devotion into pieces of dead trees glued together. Some books absolutely gnaw at my fragile soul and leave it in tatters (Hanya Yanagihara, I’m looking at you), but somehow I just cannot help but foolishly dive in. If that's not love, tell me what is.

At the end of the day, I believe that all the sad literature I consume has, indeed, made me more empathetic and considerate (both to myself and others). Outside, the rain has let up and I can almost see the nascent sunbeams dancing wildly on the distant roofs...