Tonight I read about an African writer Chinua Achebe. His most celebrated book is Things Fall Apart. I am not sure I would like it. I say that because I don’t know much about Africa and it is about Africa.
No matter. I own too many books already. Until I have read fifty more, I have purchased my last one. Kindle makes books buying too easy. For now I am on the wagon.
A later book of Mr. Achebe is Hope and Impediments. It is a book of essays, non-fiction. He also wrote poetry. Past tense because he died in Boston in March of this year. He was 83. Since 2009 he taught African Studies at Brown.
What intrigued me most about him was a statement he made as to the responsibility of writers. “A writer who feels a strong and abiding concern for his fellow cannot evade the role as social critic which is the contemporary expression of commitment to the community.”
I don’t why I am attracted to that. I don’t think of myself as committed to a community. My guess is that many writers are not. How can one be a writer with a strong connection to community? Writing is a solitary thing.
Achebe also mentioned he has “a strong and abiding concern for his fellow.” To that I can relate.
I favor one on one. So much so that community has fallen by the wayside. So much so that I am looking for ways to bring me back. Do I really have to? Are not some of us better suited to handle our fellows one at a time? Say yes, and you will make me immensely happy.
I remember words from a therapist, no one can make me happy but me. Kind of narcissistic? I am confused