In an age that is increasingly rending itself apart, remember this because this is the only lesson worth remembering--you serve History whether you like it or not. You and i are both part of a history-flux beyond which there is nothing. Time, Space, Idea, Fact, Humanity, Nature...Everything is embedded into it. As writers, as readers, this is the one crucial message we all need to bear in mind. We are "the age". Even spirituality is material.
In an age that is constantly dissolving things into mere metaphysical "liquidness" where the only practicality is market-viability, where Beauty and the Artistic are often simply "oh, there", its about time we radically reassert and redefine for ourselves both Art and Beauty. A definition that is not in danger of assuming that these are static ideas or universal ones, but at the same time one which does not merely dismiss them.
This, i think, is where the writer comes in. Am i afraid to write because i can't make a living out of defiant writing? No.
I am afraid that i do not yet understand. That i do not understand what iu am, where i am, or the incessant often-evaporated river-question "who i am". This is no excuse, and i don't intend it to be one. "So what? You're well-to-do. I fight to make a living, don't you blame me for not trying!"
True, and i can not refute it. But only say, stop placarding your slavery. We have enough natural whips to answer to--whips like hunger, thirst, sleep, sex, death--nothing else is beyond change.
My fear as a writer is how well do i understand this? Am i being superficial? To what degree? No, i can not write "for the sheer sake of communication". Art's sake is nowhere near this foul pit of decaying logic. The greatest end of art is a mirror so perfect, the sun shies from it since every spot on it is clearly visible, for its reflection is more than precise.
A face of Beauty so well made, her eyes bring death to every excess feeling, her look brings light to every corner of a dark mansion in the mind, her walk so grand it puts false grandeur to shame, her presence a monument of sheer courage courage. That is a work of art, and nobody has the right to call it impossible.
Will i ever make it? My efforts will not stop, that i am sure gives me the courage to say "I am a writer". The hope that i make the waters, winds, and soil of my earth rich to some minuscule degree with the seeds which their plants and trees have given me. That i will speak for every creature on it, without insulting the Force that makes us by being either cold or sentimental about them.
I am afraid that i do not yet understand. That i do not understand what iu am, where i am, or the incessant often-evaporated river-question "who i am". This is no excuse, and i don't intend it to be one. "So what? You're well-to-do. I fight to make a living, don't you blame me for not trying!"
True, and i can not refute it. But only say, stop placarding your slavery. We have enough natural whips to answer to--whips like hunger, thirst, sleep, sex, death--nothing else is beyond change.
My fear as a writer is how well do i understand this? Am i being superficial? To what degree? No, i can not write "for the sheer sake of communication". Art's sake is nowhere near this foul pit of decaying logic. The greatest end of art is a mirror so perfect, the sun shies from it since every spot on it is clearly visible, for its reflection is more than precise.
A face of Beauty so well made, her eyes bring death to every excess feeling, her look brings light to every corner of a dark mansion in the mind, her walk so grand it puts false grandeur to shame, her presence a monument of sheer courage courage. That is a work of art, and nobody has the right to call it impossible.
Will i ever make it? My efforts will not stop, that i am sure gives me the courage to say "I am a writer". The hope that i make the waters, winds, and soil of my earth rich to some minuscule degree with the seeds which their plants and trees have given me. That i will speak for every creature on it, without insulting the Force that makes us by being either cold or sentimental about them.
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