Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

Quotes Beget Thought

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Was reading a review of two biographies of Proust today (Carter and Tadie), and came across this quote by Jean Cocteau, on seeing the huge numbers of notebooks by the side of Proust’s deathbed: “That pile of paper . . . was still alive, like watches ticking on the wrists of dead soldiers.”  Gosh – what a line!

A thought occurred to me today, while reading an interview with Howard Bloom in which he mentioned Emerson’s quote, “Shakespeare is the only biographer of Shakespeare”.  And it was this: I’m fairly certain that my entire sanity rests on the firm belief that I know myself better than anyone else does.  That I have access to inner regions of myself, with my contradictions and rationalisations and proper causes, that no one else can do anything but guess at.  My fear – not that I really believe it will ever eventuate – is that someone else might one day take that mantle from me, might convince me that not only am I blind to myself in some areas, but blind to myself in virtually every way – that the foundations of my consciousness are false.

Basically, the thought is the realisation that if I can be understood – predicted, even – then there is no point to existence.  You can’t have a soul if you have no free will, I suppose.

Anyway.  Slightly depressing, that.  It’ll never happen, thankfully.  And even if it did, I’m sure my psyche would find a way to delude me into not realising it.  So live on, be happy!

525/whatever in Don Quixote.  I need to pick up speed, damn it!  More power to the engines!

Written by epistemysics

March 25, 2013 at 1:56 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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