VERTIGO

I see literature as a force that shakes my foundation, forces me to confront the unknown, and makes me question everything I thought I understood, then vertigo feels like the perfect metaphor. Just like vertigo itself—an unsettling dizziness that takes hold when my mind struggles to find stable ground—literature disorients me, pushing my thoughts and perceptions into unfamiliar and uncomfortable places. In this disorientation, I feel a deep, almost physical shift in perspective, where the familiar becomes strange, and the strange feels oddly familiar.

At first, when I dive into a new book, it can feel like stepping into a void, where the ground beneath me seems to dissolve. The narrative might pull me in different directions, or the characters might present contradictions that make me question their motives. I feel this mix of exhilaration and uncertainty, almost like a free fall. The world I thought I knew—my comfort zone—suddenly feels unstable, and it forces me to reassess everything.

But here’s the thing: just like vertigo, literature is not always a negative experience. It doesn’t disturb me for the sake of it; it reframes my understanding, makes me see the world in ways I couldn’t before. That uncomfortable sense of losing myself within a text is ultimately what leads to revelation. I may feel momentarily lost in the words, but as I move through the narrative, I start to find new ways of seeing, new ways of thinking. It’s this mental shift that stays with me, even long after the book is closed.

In this sense, literature, like vertigo, leads to personal growth. I might emerge from it with a deeper understanding of myself or the world. But the feeling isn’t just one of clarity—it’s often accompanied by a lingering, awe-struck sense of change. Literature forces me to confront new ideas, beliefs, and perspectives, and in doing so, it often makes me question my prior assumptions, leading to moments of profound transformation.

Take Franz Kafka's "The Metamorphosis" for example. At first glance, the story of Gregor Samsa waking up as a giant insect feels surreal, perhaps even absurd. But as I dive deeper, the narrative becomes a reflection on isolation, family dynamics, and the alienation that can come with modern life. It’s a disorienting experience, but by the end, the shift in perspective makes me reconsider what it means to truly be human.

Similarly, Virginia Woolf’s "Mrs. Dalloway" takes me into the minds of its characters, shifting between past and present, memory and reality. As Woolf moves between perspectives, the experience of vertigo intensifies—I'm constantly navigating through disjointed thoughts and emotional turbulence. But, like vertigo, this constant shifting of viewpoints ultimately leads to new insights about the fragility of human experience, time, and connection.

Even Haruki Murakami's "Kafka on the Shore" offers a disorienting, dream-like narrative that plays with time, identity, and fate. The surrealism in the novel creates a sense of vertigo, as the boundaries between reality and fantasy blur. Yet, by the end, there’s this strange kind of understanding—a kind of resolution where I realize that the journey through the unknown, the confusion, and the discomfort, is what makes the story so profound.

These moments where I lose myself in a book mirror the experience of vertigo: I feel unmoored and disoriented. But in the process of finding my way again, my view of the world is forever changed. Literature opens doors to new ways of thinking, new ways of experiencing life, and that exhilaration—the mixture of uncertainty and epiphany—is what makes it so transformative.

Ultimately, literature, like vertigo, challenges the way I view the world. It disorients and unsettles me, but it’s through that disorientation that I discover new horizons. By the time I regain my footing, my perspective has shifted irrevocably, and I emerge with a richer, more nuanced understanding of myself and the world around me.