Lost in Soho

The English writer presents us with a novel titled “Lost in Soho,” in which he expresses his frank opinion about people who pretend to live in freedom, which is a falsehood that cannot be called freedom. This novel tells the story of Harry (Colin Wilson), who, in his foggy world, wonders, “Who am I?”, “What will I do?”, and “Why did I come to life?” His mind fails to find logical answers. Ordinary life, hours of manual labor, and the faces of his fellow workers accompany his eyes every day, with nothing new… Will life go on without something exploding from within? A mother’s face is drawn with confusion: What about my son? He lives secluded in his room, reading philosophical books she doesn’t understand, listening to classical music, and going to work, where he digs the ground to lay the new telephone wires in his town. Harry (Colin Wilson) was convinced that life would go on without anything new, and he had to make a hole, even a small one, in the wall of his monotonous prison and step out like a small piece, searching for something new in his life with depth, color, and movement. One day, he threw himself into the lake of human condensation, hoping to dive in and find something to hold dear to his heart. His past life had become a dark dungeon to him, like an abandoned grave in which no one would be buried. He sat alone in his work clothes on a morning train with the name London written on the front, the giant, terrifying city that devours and distorts, creates and creates all at once. A small thought was running through his mind: “I live a life without the colors of the days, a single day in which nothing flows or flows. To move even a little backward, to turn your head toward a distant or nearby place, to contemplate a tree planted in a street, to consider adding obscure things you don’t know, is better than remaining still like a large stone resting on its base as a statue.”