If now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger than the lying, crushing weight of the world, stronger than all the racks and wheels which the cowardly invent to crush out the miracle of personality.
If any man ever dared to translate all that is in his heart, to put down what is really his experience, what is truly his truth, I think then the world would go to smash, that it would be blown to smithereens and no god, no accident, no will could ever again assemble the pieces, the atoms, the indestructible elements that have gone to make up the world.
… no picture, this is just perfect….
images fall slow and silent like snow
Take music, for instance. Less than anything else, it is connected to reality, or if connected at all, it’s done mechanically, not by way of ideas, just by a sheer sound, devoid of… any associations. And yet, music, as if by some miracle, gets through to our heart. What is it that resonates in us in response to noise brought to harmony, making it the source of the greatest delight which stuns us and brings us together?
<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 –>