I had a relatively absurd day this week and, as usual, in such situations, my solution is to start a book or even two. For times I can´t remember, books are my shield against the everyday intellectual shortages. For better or worse, there is always a delight in being alone with a story, imaginary or real.
In the words of Ross Gay there is a ´delight muscle´ which, like all the muscles we know, needs practice. Or, it is ´something that implies that the more you study delight, the more delight there is to study´. I was not necessarily aware about the theory of delights, but actually in practice this is what I modestly tried to understand and follow in the last two years: how to rejoice the moment, in its very existence, ´not without sorrow or fear or pain or loss. But more full of delights´.
A collection of diary-like entries, The Book of Delights is a pleasure (of the delightful type) of a book. Not only because the writing itself is a pleasure for the brain, but also because although does not avoid traumatic realities, such as the racial discrimination in America and its humiliating episodes, it does recognize the simple humanity and simplicity of beauty. Such as, the unique red of the flower growing up in the cracks of the pavement.
The Books of Delights requires the return to the pleasure of being alive. As a human, plant or red colour.
Rating: 4.5 stars
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