Mid-winter in July. The landscape dissolving in haze, distances obscured by a melancholy wash of cloud. I lift my head from a translation of Plato’s Phaedo and think about how conversations continue over generations, across centuries, the same questions always fresh and new, answers that are rediscovered again and again. Dialogues, debates, exchanges, the human pleasure of thinking aloud between friends.
Discarded a chapter of fiction and started over at 5am, wrapped in faded pashminas and a doggy-haired rug in the freezing darkness, that pure deep silence that helps me think harder, and hopefully deeper and better
What or who do we become as writers? George Saunders takes the optimistic view:
“A work of art is something produced by a person, but is not that person — it is of her, but is not her. It’s a reach, really — the artist is trying to inhabit, temporarily, a more compact, distilled, efficient, wittier, more true-seeing, precise version of herself — one that she can’t replicate in so-called ‘real’ life, no matter how hard she tries. That’s why she writes: to try and briefly be more than she truly is.”