Since I can remember, I have been fascinated by books. No matter their subject, they have always presented themselves to me as worlds eager to be discovered. This is what good books—what good literature—does: they captivate us and often impose themselves upon our sense of being.
But books, poetry, and literature also discover us. They make us inheritors of what has been passed down in the form of story—our story. It seems to me that, when it comes to ultimate things, this story is far more similar than it is different: that ever-long search for meaning, that constant ache and restlessness that leads us to question existence, to order what matters most, and ultimately to wonder about its transcendence.
This, in my view, is the quest of any literary endeavour, even if it can do no more than hint at such questions and offer only glimpses of their answers.
I suppose these are my own hints, glimpses, and sketches—my own drawings on the proverbial napkin, accumulated over the years and born from my restless questions and longings. At least, this is how I see them.
I truly hope that some of them resonate with you in this way. In any case, I am grateful you are here.
