Normally the Book Is Better Than the Movie

Normally the Book Is Better Than the Movie

By Kateb Shunnar

My friend, lemme tell you somethin’ life ain’t meant to be rushed. You can’t just sit back, hit play, and think you understand it. Most folks? They try. They watch the loud scenes, clap at the highlights, then scratch their heads when the story don’t make sense. Life is a book, not a movie. A real book. Messy chapters, whispered lessons between the lines, a rhythm that don’t always follow logic. You gotta read it. You gotta linger on the sentences, feel the pauses, notice the spaces where the meaning hides.

Storms come. And I ain’t talkin’ rain or wind, my friend. I’m talkin’ ‘bout the ones that press on your chest, keep you awake, make your hands shake a little. Hardships, betrayals, nights that stretch too long they roll in slow and steady like the Mississippi risin’. But there’s a house that don’t crumble. Not made of brick or wood, but of the Creator. Solid. Stronger than any storm. The movie shows the chaos the tears, the dramatic music, the crashin’. The book? The book lets you stand inside, feel the walls tremble, and still know you’re safe.

Blessings don’t always come loud or flashy. Sometimes, they whisper. Health that carries you. Food that nourishes body and spirit. A neighbor nodding in respect. Sunlight hitting wet streets just right. Even the hum of a streetcar rollin’ down St. Charles. Despise not the day of small things, my friend. The movie skips ‘em. The book? It lingers, lets ‘em breathe, lets you notice their weight.

New Orleans knows this well. Shadows stretch long, fog curls like it’s whisperin’ secrets, lanterns drift on the Mississippi, glowing faint. Most folks walk past, thinking it’s nothin’. But if you pause, if you pay attention, that lantern guides you without a single word. Life is like that lantern. The movie rushes past it. The book? It makes you pause, feel the chill of the fog, hear the river hum, and understand what’s happenin’.

Even in the thick of it, life has little jokes. Maybe a stray dog trots by like he owns the whole neighborhood. Maybe the streetcar bell clangs just as you stumble, and you can’t help but chuckle at yourself. Maybe a neighbor shouts, “Laissez les bons temps rouler!” when the wind knocks over a trash can. These ain’t distractions. They’re footnotes. Hidden lessons in plain sight. The movie? Skips ‘em. The book? It lingers, teaches patience, observation, even grace, if you’re paying attention.

“Cher, you see that?” an old man once said on Royal Street, noddin’ at a flickering lantern. “That light’s got a story if you listen.” And I swear, my friend, he wasn’t just talkin’ ‘bout no lantern. He was talkin’ ‘bout life. The quiet, easy guidance you don’t notice if you’re watchin’ the spectacle instead of readin’ the pages.

Faith ain’t something you measure in charts or facts. You can have all the data in the world and still miss it. Life’s like a radio. Step too far from the tower, and all you hear is static doubt, distraction, confusion. But tune in just a little, and you catch the hum, the subtle guidance you’ve been waitin’ for. The book lets you linger in that hum. The movie? Quick cuts, loud music, and you think you got it but you missed the essence.

There’s a tale that floats in the alleys near the French Market, ‘bout a cat named Monsieur Le Chat. They say he only shows up for folks who got hearts open enough to see what’s real. Cross paths with him, and he’ll stare like he’s readin’ your soul, tail flickin’, eyes glintin’, and then vanish when you turn around. Foolproof trick? Nah. He’s teachin’ patience, attention, humility. Folks call it nonsense. The movie would cut that scene out, slap in a chase sequence. The book lingers. The book lets you sit with the cat, watch him, feel the lesson sink in slow.

Storms will come again. Nights will stretch. Winds will press hard. But the house built on the Creator? Stands. Every whispered blessing, every quiet mercy tucked in the ordinary strengthens it. The movie shows spectacle. The book shows the foundation, the story flowing, how the world keeps movin’ forward even when it feels like it should fall apart.

Life ain’t about skipping to the next chapter. It’s about reading the sentences that seem small, unimportant, absurd. Shadows across the alley. Fog curlin’ around a lamppost. A child laughin’ at nothin’. That’s where the real lessons hide. The book lingers there. The movie? Gone in a blink.

Even when the world presses in, notice the humor, the grace, the tiny nudges from the Creator sayin’, “I got you.” A stray lantern on the river. The stray dog struttin’ like he’s king. A neighbor smilin’ with knowing eyes. These are threads stitchin’ the story together. The book gives you time to see, to understand, to breathe in the lessons.

Take humor, for instance. Life can be absurd, and the book knows it. A crooked streetlamp casting shadows that make no sense. A cat sprawled smack dab in the middle of the road daring you to move him. A neighbor cussin’ at the sky after slipping in mud. The book lingers there. It lets you feel patience, attention, grace. The movie? Skips it. Ain’t worth three seconds. But those moments they shape you, teach you, make you notice things you’d otherwise pass by.

Even sarcasm carries wisdom. A friend will tell you, “You think that trouble’s gone? Ha! It’s sittin’ in the corner laughin’ at you.” Ain’t that the truth? But there’s comfort in it. It reminds you: storms are predictable, but your response ain’t. Laugh a little. Shake your head. Keep walkin’. The book gives room for that laugh. The movie? Cuts to dramatic music, then boom next scene.

And life’s full of surprises, my friend. That’s the thing the movie don’t show you. Lanterns float, cats vanish, music drifts from nowhere, wind carries voices from the past. The book? It pauses. It makes you notice the small miracle tucked between the mundane. Like the smell of beignets at dawn, heavy with sugar, calling you awake. Or the preacher’s voice echoing just as the fog rolls in thick, words soft but meanin’ somethin’ that hits your chest. The movie? Gone. No pause, no linger.

Even the hardships the real storms they teach, if you read ‘em. Betrayal, sickness, loss, nights where your thoughts bounce off walls and echo back. The book lingers on those chapters. It lets you cry, groan, pray, laugh bitterly, and find the strength to rise. The movie? Skips it, moves to the next happy scene like nothin’ happened.

The real magic, my friend, is knowin’ how to listen. To the Creator, to the city, to the stray dog, to Monsieur Le Chat. Listen to the lanterns, the music, the humor. Life speaks in subtleties. The book teaches you to hear them. The movie? You’re just watchin’ the noise.

You don’t have to understand it all at once. You just have to be present. Stand in the courtyard when the trumpet plays itself. Watch the fog wrap around lampposts. Laugh when the wind knocks over that trash can, just like the neighbor shouted, “I swear, y’all, even the spirits got a sense of humor!” The movie? Too fast. The book? Slow enough to feel it in your chest.

And here’s the beauty: through every crooked shadow, every laughter-filled stumble, every whispered mercy, there’s a foundation. Faith. Strength. The quiet presence of the Creator guiding steps, even when the world looks chaotic. You learn to trust the story, the chapters, the pauses. The movie wants you entertained. The book wants you transformed.

So, my friend, next time you’re rushin’ through life, remember: read the pages. Smell the sugar from the café. Hear the stray trumpet. Watch the cat. Feel the lantern glow. Listen to the Creator whisper between the lines. The book? That’s where life lives. The movie? Well… it’s just the highlights. Ain’t no replacement for the real story.

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