Ender's Game

Orson Scott Card is a genius beyond all geniuses, whether he knows it or not. His books reek of pure, unadulterated truth and beautiful prose. An aura of mathematical precision and understanding envelops his ideals. I require you, my audience, to immerse yourselves in his literature. The series to which you must dedicate several hours of your precious (yet worthless, if you have not read these books) time consists of four books: Ender's Game, Speaker for the Dead, Xenocide, and Children of the Mind. These books changed me. Having read them, I find that the world makes sense, that I understand reality, despite the fictitious nature of the novels. I believe that I comprehended the world beforehand, but everything becomes clear and obvious, and I long for the fiction to become reality in a literal sense. The appeal of the core concepts of the fiction is unimaginable: a philosophy with direct physical implications! Yet despite this yearning, I find myself grateful that another analogous perspective on the universe has arisen in the same way that Chinese mythology weaves itself into biology and medical sciences. Perhaps I do not make myself clear: read the damn books.

The completion of the final chapter of the final novel in the quartet puts an amazingly satisfactory cap on a perfect weekend; with some doubt, I declare the past week to be the best; without doubt, I recognize that some of the happiest events in my entire life have occurred within the past week, give or take a day. Blessed control restored to my mind, I may now attack the world with vigor as before, although I maintain my previous philosophy of machine-like (remember Star Trek?) Safety so as to circumvent entirely any specific pain. The only emotion resembling pain which I now experience is a deep and strong desire to reunite with rare and perfect familiar individuals. I suppose that I experience the pain every moment they do not remain in my physical proximity, although remote contact does tend to dull the sharp hunger. Hunger is barely a pain, though, save starvation, and it feels nothing like thirst, which could have devastating effects on my current mood. I have been known to survive four days under stress without food, or rather three and a proper fraction before losing consciousness involuntarily (somewhat).

This is irrelevant. Please excuse my ramblings in the wake of unpredictably excellent events, as I recount to you the highlights. Ignoring the acute climaxes, of whose details I may not communicate in public, we shall begin on Friday in the evening. My brother and I traveled to Cape Cod, where a small portion of our extended family pays property taxes on desirable real estate. En route we discovered common ground through music and food, which eases the constant enormous tension created by our physical proximity, so the three hour drive was actually *less* painful than the journey home I had taken earlier in the day, which took half the time, and yet progressed significantly more slowly, despite the persistence of the same music. (To be honest, as soon as I lost translated electromagnetic contact with the vessel, I began to experience stress, despite the apparent joy in parting—subconscious deception.) From the time of our arrival to the time of our departure, I felt nothing but utter relaxation. Lying in bed (just like Brian Wilson did, excluding the mental illness, right?), I began the second half of my tour through Card's complexities, which I continued the next (perfect) day on a gorgeous beach, which was heavily populated with attractive females, and in the comfort of a hammock in the shade of two large deciduous stewards, interrupted solely for organized transport and consumption of edibles. In the late evening and into the night and early morning, I occupied myself with the final novel, experiencing what might be described as continuous intellectual exhilaration. A similar experience to the initial journey encountered my brother and I on our return trip.

The whole experience was capped by joyous communication—for which I had been waiting (foolishly) for quite some time; I was fortunate to have it fall into my lap—not long after my return. What could be better? I am nearly in the best mental condition in which I have ever been, and I can never return to my most solid state with the vulnerabilities I have recently developed.

The best part is my new contentment with all aspects, having experienced what I was curious about in the past. Despite my horrific dependence on a select few others, which I acquired in a moment of weakness in a period of ignorant behavior, I am ready to continue.

Soon enough, I will find quotes from Hemingway and Card to complement this entry. If you do not understand what I have written in this post, your confusion is not the fault of your uncultured mind, but rather your unfortunate luck of being in the wrong place at the right time. The doors are closed now, and the decision is final: the ship is well on its westward journey.