<as I’m going away for a few days I don’t know if there will be many updates so in change for inactivity here’s something to read on our beloved topic that is on writing>
How to write? How to write? How to write? The more you are into writing the more often and more desperately you keep repeating this question. What I mean here is the process of pondering about the method and about the approach to creating. The more elaborate version is: what kind of experience am I supposed to transform into writing and then, the most dangerous is to ask how should I live to get the most sought-after experience?
<read on –>
…then give him my regards, and tell him I’ll single-handedly stomp on Visconti’s grave if the doesn’t show up tomorrow.
My grandmother, as I learned afterwards, had at first chosen Mussel’s poems, a volume of Rousseau, and Indiana; for while she considered light reading as unwholesome as sweets and cakes, she did not reflect that the strong breath of genius must have upon the very soul of a child an influence at once more dangerous and less quickening than those of fresh air and country breezes upon his body.
It was simply a desire to travel; but it had presented itself as nothing less than a seizure, with intensely passionate and indeed hallucinatory force, turning his craving into vision. His imagination, still not at rest from the morning’s hours of work, shaped for itself a paradigm of all the wonders and terrors of the manifold earth of all that it was now suddenly striving to encompass.
Stepping with light feet, swiftly and noiselessly stepping and stopping,
Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers,
Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory,
Pausing, gazing, bending, and stopping.