Castles in Spain

"Just because life is hard, and always ends in a bad way, doesn't mean that all stories have to, even if that's what they tell us in school and in the New York Times Book Review. In fact, it's a good thing that stories are as different as we are, one from another."
-from Sundays at Tiffany's (Patterson 300)


Sometimes I see a bit of myself in characters in books. Then, and it always happens, the character does something very unlike me.
At times, when I feel the comfort of a person like me doing something I do myself (but their's is worthy of their own story), I feel somewhat significant. And I don't feel quite so alone in my opinions and thoughts and actions as I do outside the world of reading.
But then, when I read of the differences between us, I realize that I'm not a character in an captivating story; I'm just a character in real life.
I really do agree with Jane that all stories should have good endings. As it is, real life doesn't have marked chapters and scattered endings, and therefore it just stumbles forward without any (even provisional) resolution until the very end. But at the same time, I don't agree with the fact that life always ends in a bad way (and I don't understand why Jane said it, as she had a storybook ending herself). I am a strong believer in the opinion that we cause bad things to happen to ourselves; or rather, though we can't control the situation, we can control our reaction to it.
Anyway, I've always got three questions always tugging at the back of my mind. One that has recently formed in the past few years is whether imaginative dreams are truly worth hoping for.
Sundays at Tiffany's was probably the first book I've read that backed up the opinion that they are so strongly. But I've seen so many other examples elseware that tend to insist that there is no hope for such a naive desire. Reality is not fantasy, and that's a fact.
Although I know that's true, I can never stop believing that for a few lucky people it's possible to come halfway. Like in Jane's story. I cling to that hope, for I know I don't have much a chance in the real world.
I have to wonder what I'll be like in the future. Though I'd much rather savor my sweet past, I know I'll be forced to look forward someday. Yet there's still that irresistible temptation to wonder anyway. I guess I try to find my future self, or even my present self, within the characters that seem most like me in books. The only thing I seem to be certain about is my past self. But I can never be certain if that will be anough to guide me for the rest of my life, here in this achromatic world.