Passion

There's something violent in the reading of a story that evokes passion. The pieces in your ever turning brain slowly coagulate and choke up on each other, one sentence matches a previous sentences and you can't help but imagine your outraged teacher who revealed the ugly truth to his students - and you. Now you see it, in this one text of beautiful proportions, something you never thought to love but for it's tantalizing ambiguity. But now, NOW you see: the economies of oppression (so lovely to ignore,) perhaps unintentional of the author, but you like to think it was on purpose. You love this book, and you like to think the author wrote with quavering hands, fully aware of the horror imbibed in the sentences that match previous sentences.