Oct 23, 2011

A solitary man.

Novel. He is incapable of loving other people, nor is he able to hate them. "They don't realise it is a blessing that two people living together can afford to be unhappy at each other. When one only has himself, one can love or hate no one but himself. They think they suffer; but their suffering is not greater. They can run away when they like to. But tell me, how do I run away from myself?"

Oct 20, 2011

Seven o'clock.

It was dark in his room when he woke up. The clock showed seven but he could not remember falling asleep. A dreadful idea seized his mind. I would die, he thought, at seven o'clock. He hugged his bolster tightly and turned to his side. Yesterday, at seven, he had seen the same darkness. It had given him the nausea, so he decided to do something about it. No more darkness at seven o'clock. But it came again today, and he could not help it. Finally after ten minutes, he sat up and told himself that it wouldn't matter much whether he died, he'd still have to make that final effort to take his own life. I haven't such strength, he said, as he crossed the room to turn on the light.

Camus' Notebooks: The old English lady commits suicide. In her diary, for months, she noted the same thing every day: "Today, nobody came."

A Thought on Camus.

Albert Camus. We try so hard to be somebody; he tried so hard to be nobody.

Oct 8, 2011

Mysteries, Yes

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds
will never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
"Look!" and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

—Mary Oliver

Oct 4, 2011

At Eternity's Gate.

"Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day."

—Ernest Hemingway (1899 - 1961)