I’m afraid I have to say I have long passed the teenybopper phase of keeping idols. Someone you revere is most suggestively not to be met brusquely, it is believed. I once read how Robyn Hitchcock met Syd Barrett after the former Pink Floyd lead vocal retired from the music scene, and the encounter was apparently too disappointing that he did not even bother to prolong the description. Sometimes you have to put into account that your idol still runs to the grocery and wears shorts.
Therefore while walking to school I try not to dwell too long on one specific object lest the longer I dwell upon the oftener I will like to come across it every day, and an astonishing disillusion is prophetic and imminent. People often end up reversing to what images you inflict upon when you first meet them, and being one who affirms accurately of how one’s appearance suggests, I feel like the easiest math question which contains merely a + and =. Incredulity is often foolishly magnified when countering such math question, and one’s intuition is to entangle it until every means has being tried but in vain, one can let out a long sigh and proclaim defeat. My dreariness eventually becomes inexplicably the most complex.
I hold a firm belief that honesty makes a person dreary and uncanny in the contemporary society. A person is always honest with himself if he is not insane. His eyes attest to the direct observation and the image he sees transmits to his brain or his heart or both and the honesty is confirmed. However, that person must also be a good writer if he wants to be renowned as an honest person. Adolescence craves for feelings; self-edifying bestsellers boast for their feelings; I used to stress upon feelings and it was not until recently did I realize my futility of being honest to my feelings, for I can never find the perfect words to delineate them or arch them. My inward hatred of writing is also another factor.
Evelyn Waugh must be one of those who dislike detailing his feelings, so his novels are teemed with dialogues which make an even stronger impact on readers that nobody can come to terms with their feelings after reading his books. Poets toy with feelings like a condescending art connoisseur who derails the bumpkins from Max Ernst to a more palatable Courbet, and denounce the photography like Baudelaire. There is nothing peculiar when you gape at your idol who is slovenly dressed in a tank-top and a pair of boxing shorts, and still cannot find the apt words to depict this incident after much brain-racking. That is what makes that person your very idol.