Sunday, April 3, 2016
John Steinbeck,Journal of a Novel, quote
"I shall tell them this story against the background of the county I grew up in
and along the river I know and do not love very much.
For I have discovered that there are other rivers.
And this my boys will not know for a long time nor can they be told.
A great many never come to know that there are other rivers.
Perhaps that knowledge is saved for maturity and very few people
ever mature. It is enough if they flower and reseed. That is all that
nature requires of them.
But sometimes in a man or a woman awareness takes place — not
very often and always inexplainable. There are no words for it because
there is no one ever to tell. This is a secret not kept a secret,
but locked in wordlessness. The craft or art of writing is the clumsy attempt
to find symbols for the wordlessness. In utter loneliness a writer tries to
explain the inexplicable.
And sometimes if he is very fortunate and if the time is right, a very little
of what he is trying to do trickles through — not ever much.
And if he is a writer wise enough to know it can’t be done,
then he is not a writer at all. A good writer always works at the impossible.
There is another kind who pulls in his horizons, drops his mind
as one lowers rifle sights.
And giving up the impossible he gives up writing."
(found in : brainpickings.org)
and along the river I know and do not love very much.
For I have discovered that there are other rivers.
And this my boys will not know for a long time nor can they be told.
A great many never come to know that there are other rivers.
Perhaps that knowledge is saved for maturity and very few people
ever mature. It is enough if they flower and reseed. That is all that
nature requires of them.
But sometimes in a man or a woman awareness takes place — not
very often and always inexplainable. There are no words for it because
there is no one ever to tell. This is a secret not kept a secret,
but locked in wordlessness. The craft or art of writing is the clumsy attempt
to find symbols for the wordlessness. In utter loneliness a writer tries to
explain the inexplicable.
And sometimes if he is very fortunate and if the time is right, a very little
of what he is trying to do trickles through — not ever much.
And if he is a writer wise enough to know it can’t be done,
then he is not a writer at all. A good writer always works at the impossible.
There is another kind who pulls in his horizons, drops his mind
as one lowers rifle sights.
And giving up the impossible he gives up writing."
(found in : brainpickings.org)
G.Burgess, I wish that my room had a floor
-- I Wish That My Room Had A Floor, Gelett Burgess
R.L.Stevenson, At The Seaside
-- At the Seaside, Robert Louis Stevenson
Entangled in April
Entangled in the web
of memories, in April
and in the pain
of my silly heart
Touched by death
and the scent of lillies
i walk in greening meadows
under the willow trees
And in the river
i saw my blood flowing
There i felt my desire
reaching for you
My soul came out
into my skin, and
the trees are shooting,
a greeting to stars and moon
Dreaming in birds' song
breathing sun and sky
still entangled in April
wounded by being alive
I must leave and be still
in this my holy silence
to shed my skin
and rest my head.
But here i cannot stay
when the spring tickles
my feet to come out
and be awake to life.
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