I am reading my way through Salman Rushdie’s new book, Two Years, Eight Months and Twenty-eight Nights (a thousand and one nights.) I don’t know if I will finish the book; his books usually tell Eastern metaphysical stories that I find difficult to follow – and sometimes my interest in the outcome fades; but his thoughts, his sentence structure, his jewels of complex reason keep me coming back.
A sentence in this his new book crept into my mind like a song or melody you just can’t get rid of.
“We are all stories within stories.”
A parallel universe of stories.
There is a story of me; a story of my family, a story of my birth family, a story of my family tree, a story of my race, nation, my place in the world, the cosmos, and all possible branches from each of those possibilities – and in each story I take a lesser and lesser roll until I am minuscule.
We are each a story within a story; but the only story that matters to our egocentric id is the personal story of ourselves – because beyond that we matter less and less, until we find ourselves totally unimportant.