Need Answer ASAP- interpreting poems

Books have neither the benefits or drawbacks of being alive and conscious. They are able neither to love and share sensuality and intimacies with you, they have no spirituality nor soul - nor do they have greed, nor venom nor regrets...

Books are nothing but endlessly repeating words - they have no transcendence of their words (I think the author is trying to say that they offer, despite our projections of comfort and companionship and shared communication onto them, and the love we give them, nothing but a parroting of what has been printed into them.)

I have become like this - I am in communion with nobody - I am fleshless and unhuman - neither loving and sensual and spiritual, nor base and physical - disconnected - empty.

Like the books, and the books, like me, are "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" (I think the echoes of Shakespeare's Macbeth are no accident here - "Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing." - but I may well be wrong! I also, perhaps wrongly also, see echoes of Lear's "blasted heath" and howling winds).

The pages of the book, and my life, are turned, and torn, randomly by life.


It seems to me that the poet is in a period of numbness and depression - where love and life and books (I suspect previously much beloved) have become meaningless.

I am unsure if this is in the context of a relationship which has failed - or in the context of a relationship with the one to whom the poet is writing that is the only meaningful one to them.....

Anyhoo - that is what I have gleaned thus far - for what it is worth - hopefully others will come along!

Now - what do YOU think????