Only real learning is self-discovered, self appropriated.


Araki Nobuyoshi - Flower Shade

(Source: narciste850)

When you spend all your time reading and not writing, you find you are more prone to forgetting than remembering. Ideas oscillate like a soft melody in your head, moving in and out of audibility. Writing is a process. A process: a word I tend to forget when I think about my writing life. A pain that grips so tightly on my abdomen that I always fold. But the process, if one persists through the pain, is also the source of joy. The world melts away. Time, which we are drilled to conscientiously keep track of,  becomes irrelevant when your mind arranges letters and words into sentences - weaving them like different colored threads into a tapestry. I wonder if all the tapestries woven by women in earlier times were all thought through and planned before they begun at the loom. Or if they just sat and wove, for hours, trusting where the thread was taking them. 

To remember, to forget, and to remember again. This is why it is important to write. Time. Time is evidence of death. Without an end would one have to keep time? Eventually we all will disappear and writing is fighting for our reappearance. Even in life this happens. Everyday, which I punch in the Kronos time clock at work I disappear. And it is only when I punch out that I reappear again. And I begin to fight against my own disappearance again. To use what whatever time I have left to sit at my loom, take the threads of ideas, and weave. 

One of the threads I stumbled into has reminded me of an urgency I often forget:

"If I have communicated anything to you it is the absolute urgency to write yourself, your body, your own experience. The absolute necessity for you to write yourself in order to understand yourself, in order to become yourself. I ask you to fight against your own disappearance. To refuse to self-immolate. Or to launch yourself as a burning, glorious spectacle into outer space. To scratch yourself out and begin again, to die an resurrect."

So: appear not disappear, remember not forget, and write not fade out. 


Gorgeous Illustrations Of ‘Untranslatable’ Words From Different Languages by Based in New Zealand, media designer Anjana Iyer 

One of the things Eliot sought explicitly to do in her fiction was to induce a reader to move beyond simple identification with people who are easy to comprehend because they are like us, and instead to feel with someone who is entirely unlike ourselves.
Rebecca Mead on how George Eliot, who never bore children herself, knew so well what becoming a mother was like: (via newyorker)

Ambition — ‘fastidious yet hungry,’ as she would later write to Mrs. Congreve — was what Mary Ann Evans felt seized by. She regarded it as if it were an external evil pressing upon her, rather than — that which is equally possible — a good rising within her. She admitted to it, and in doing so she gave voice to it. She knew she wanted something. She knew she wanted to do something. She just didn’t know what it was. She just knew she wanted, and wanted, and wanted.
Rebecca Mead - My Life in Middlemarch 

Reading is sometimes thought of as a form of escapism, and it’s a common turn of phrase to speak of getting lost in a book. But a book can also be where one finds oneself; and when a reader is grasped and held by a book, reading does not feel like an escape from life so much as it feels like an urgent, crucial dimension of life itself. There are books that seem to comprehend us just as much as we understand them, or even more. There are books that grow with the reader as the reader grows, like a graft to a tree.
Rebecca Mead -  My Life in Middlemarch 

Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain | VQR Online ↘

"Write towards something beyond blood."

Notes On Excess (Frenetic annotations on self-indulgent immoderation.) - Adult Mag ↘

"Insatiability is not a state of excessive desire——it’s not wanting it all. It takes no account of substance. Instead it breeds a bottomlessness. A gaping hole. Some call it a wound.

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