CONFESSIONS

The word confession provokes a myriad of thoughts and possibilities, not the least of which is the one related to a specific religion. Not holding to any religion myself, other than believing in humanity, if that can be called a religion, I spend my effort and time in reading about other people's lives, in the hope of understanding them better. I write about a few too. Since first at school I have been a reader of the classics and have learned much from them about the human condition in general and what makes specific characters tick. Austen, Shakespeare, Dickens, Homer, Hardy and so on. Some stories are easy to read while others prove difficult. It was only after sharing the reading with a group of friends that I eventually waded through James Joyce, which taught me a fair bit about the Ireland that Joyce lived in. As a student I read and re read John Steinbeck and loved the way he created the lives of ordinary people and their struggles, as well as their joys. (In later years I have trouble concentrating on Steinbeck, which says more about me than the author.) I am currently reading The Slap and simultaneously reading This is Happiness, two books with totally different writing styles, as well as very different stories. One is like being dragged to your feet and shouted at, as it focuses heavily on modern family life in Australia, with all of its frantic and often ambiguous messages about how life ought to be lived. The other book is like being gently seated in a comfy sofa, sipping lemon tea and, perhaps, smoking a cigarette, and listening to the resurfaced memories of the narrator about a past era in a village in Ireland. Times were more gently, activities harder on the body and poverty abounded and yet, the characters who people this book certainly offer up glimpses into what made them tick, what made them human and, in a way, misunderstood. Both authors are excellent story tellers. Both books offer insights into what it is to be human. Which story and/or style is preferred depends upon numerous things, not to be discussed here.

 And so to the confession. War and Peace, that classic tome that was declared to be the longest book and the biggest story ever. Or so it seemed to me. Many times I have begun to read it, many times I have skimmed through it yet  never have I completed it from beginning to end. Yet, I feel I must know the story properly. I must get under the skin of these long-ago characters. But what  a book!  I have purchased an adaptation of the story on film. A DVD is winging its way to me this very moment. I just hope it is true to the original story and not filled with half truths and full on lies, as so many modern versions of the past are. Do I feel guilty at not reading the book? I confess I do. Will I enjoy the story as told on the DVD? Yet to be proven. Any story is a story about other people and so we should all learn something from that.