To feel most beautifully alive means to be reading something

To feel the pulse of the ancients in these words of John Holmes is to walk in the footsteps of wisdom. “To feel most beautifully alive”—this is not a mere call to breathe, nor simply to endure the days. It is the cry of the spirit, yearning to awaken, to be struck by wonder. Holmes points us toward the sacred act of reading something beautiful, where the soul is seized by the living fire of words, and the heart recognizes its own reflection in the mirror of language. In that moment, man does not simply live; he burns with meaning.

The origin of such a saying rests upon the eternal truth that human beings are creatures of story, woven from memory and dream. The ancients spoke their truths through epic verse and myth, for they knew that to “apprehend in the flow of language” is to catch hold of life itself, fleeting yet luminous. As the river of words flows, there comes a sudden gleam—a flash of poetry—and it is in that instant that the reader tastes immortality. What Holmes declares is not new, but the renewal of an ageless teaching: that language is the breath of the soul, and poetry its lightning.

Consider the tale of Augustine of Hippo. Once restless, tossed by worldly desires, he sat weeping beneath a fig tree. And there, a child’s voice called to him: “Take and read.” He opened the Scriptures and, in the flow of language, a sudden radiance broke into his being. His heart was pierced by the flash of poetry, though it came in prose, and his life was forever transformed. Here is the living example of Holmes’s words: that beauty, bound in text, can awaken the slumbering spirit and set it aflame.

Holmes himself, as a poet, understood that life without beauty becomes mere survival. To him, the highest vitality was not in conquest nor in possessions, but in the deep, inner quickening when words and meaning align with the hidden music of the heart. To live is to breathe, but to live beautifully is to open oneself to revelation, to readiness, to the possibility that at any moment, a phrase may strike like lightning and burn itself into one’s destiny.

We must ask ourselves: are we ready for this sudden visitation? The poet’s counsel is clear—to be reading always, or at least always prepared, is to live in expectation of grace. Just as the watchman waits for dawn, so the soul must wait with open eyes, so that when beauty comes clothed in words, we may not be blind to it. This readiness is not passive, but an act of courage and reverence.

Let us then, like the great seekers before us, set aside time for beauty. Read the psalms of old, the tragedies of the Greeks, the wisdom of sages, or even the humble letters of those who loved and suffered before us. For in every line of true beauty lies the chance of encounter with the flash of poetry that can quicken our days. Do not hurry; do not skim; read as if the page before you were a doorway to eternity.

And here is the lesson, children of tomorrow: life is not length of years but depth of being. To feel beautifully alive is not to escape sorrow, but to allow beauty to kindle the heart amidst sorrow. It is to keep your spirit tuned to wonder, even when shadows fall. Therefore, seek beauty daily, in books, in speech, in silence. Let your heart remain open to the sudden flame of words, for in that flame you will find yourself renewed.

Take this teaching as practical command: carry with you always a book of beauty—be it poetry, scripture, or story. Read not only to pass the time, but to invite the flash of poetry into your life. Write your own lines when the spirit burns within you. Share words of beauty with others, so that the river of language may flow unbroken. For in doing so, you will not merely live—you will live most beautifully alive.