Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…


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Ah, that curious sensation, of knowing you haven’t achieved what you wanted – haven’t come close – but at the same time being so utterly empowered and enchanted with yourself.  That is what it is like to write.

I wonder if any complex emotion can be described in terms of a contradiction.  I think they probably can be.  The only problem is that, for someone to understand the contradiction, they have to have felt it.  Then they get it.  Without having felt it previously, I don’t think they ever really feel it.  The upshot, though, is that just because someone has felt something, it doesn’t mean they can recall that feeling at will, and hence writers who write these contradictions are still valuable.  (And isn’t that lucky for us writers?  Who’d have thunk that I’d argue myself into a position where writers are useful?)

220/whatever.  I don’t know if it’s because I’m not attending to it as much, but I think I may not be enjoying this Austen as much as the others.  Probably it is because I keep reading it in tiny chunks, and so I lose track of the subtleties.

And no, about a week ago when I said “Fanny is in love” (or something like that), I didn’t mean Fanny in the novel.  At least not at the point I was up to.  I was just using a name from Austen.  Trust me to pick the wrong one.  (Then again, maybe she does fall in love before the end.  We’ll see, we’ll see.)


Written by epistemysics

September 3, 2013 at 3:41 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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