There is nothing I find quite as satisfying as the crafting of a beautiful and balanced sentence that means absolutely nothing. But this is a rarified art. The words, once lined up even in a random procession, cling to each other in desperate pretense begging to be understood. Juxtaposed, the words cannot evade the influence of one another. Like planets or moons under the sway of each other's gravity, the syllables must become there own solar system. They inhabit a discrete logic in conference with each other; like stars aligned by the ego-centric inhabitants of this blue planet, they constellate their meaning. Just as astronauts and astronomers can see the false coherence of the map proposed, writers know instinctually to distrust the mesmerizing sway of their vocabulary. They know the slippery nature of these stars that fall with momentary brilliance, illuminating everything, before descending inevitably into darkness. They bring the deep shade of space and its nothingness with them. Brief candles, they are lies that fire the imagination. False truths. False gods. False hope.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
No comments:
Post a Comment