I confess. I have an addiction. A constant craving, if you will.
Okay, well maybe that is a bit overdramatized, but I grabbed your attention didn’t I?
I’ve realized for sometime now that I thrive on poetic and artistic expression, of a number of different varieties, that touches upon the complexities of human life – the vulgar, the sentimental, the dark, and the hopeful. This can be in the form of a song, composed in just the right way to put you at ease or tug at your heart strings. Sometimes a film, with even just one beautifully shot scene can suffice (the scene in The Pianist, where he is walking down the street in the deserted Jewish ghetto, weeping while clothes and people’s things left behind are whirling around him, comes to mind right now). And sometimes, it can be as simple as a line in a novel that utilizes the poetics of language perfectly – powerful, yet subtle and unpretentious.
I have another confession. I crave these things because I am unable to create myself. I feel it, deep down inside, almost like a gaping hole or a void, physically manifesting itself in a dull gut ache. But neither the expression or the medium is there. That’s why my constant search for new songs, new uses of language, and new perceptions of the colors and angles of familiar objects exists. It makes me feel life, in all its exhilaration and awe.
What spurred this random thought? An article in a Harper’s magazine from 2005. While on the surface, it appears to be a bitter author, railing against the sellout attitude of Jonathon Franzen (author of The Corrections), it’s actually something much more worthwhile than this. It makes you question why you read. And yes, maybe even what you want out life. It asks, what’s your preferred method of being in touch with this thing called the human experience?
And now to feed my (and yours – if you feel similarly) addiction for today, I’m ending with two quotes from Joyce’s Ulysses.
My childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. MIne is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stoney, sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.
Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me.
Ironically, as always, I underlined that section of Ulysses this afternoon. I liked vivid picture it painted. There were many more that just seemed to move me because of their obscure meaning(s). Joyce’s writing in this book, especially early on, is extremely stream-of-consciousness, but in a way that makes you want to know more and understand the connections and emotions tied to those connections. It’s addicting, to say the least.
Hope you’re enjoying it, love.
I am enjoying it – very good choice for the first read of the M&L bookclub
I love stream of consciousness writing too, that’s why I got so engrossed in Hopscotch and why it made me think to read Ulysses next.
We’ll have to compare notes later, meaning I’d like to see what other passages you found moving.
Hey cricket! Okay, we can compare, but lately I underline and comment for various reasons, mostly personal thoughts on poetic prose that I like or hope to return to later to understand the structure in order to imitate the style. But I’d be happy to compare notes.
Thank you, sir!