Two essential feelings rise up in me as I close a finished book and put it away: the sense of being marooned in the provinces, and the fear that I lack authenticity. For years I have, in my reading, been studying, discovering, deepining these emotions, in all their variety and unintended consequences, their nerve endings, their triggers, and their many colors. Certainly my spirits have been jarred by the confusions, the sensitivities and the fleeting pains that life has sprung on me. Yet it is art that etches these inchoate emotions into stark relief. To partake of literature is to acknowledge the secret wounds that we carry inside us, the wounds so secret that we ourselves are barely aware of them, and to patiently explore them, know them, illuminate them, to own these pains and wounds, and to make them a conscious part of our spirits.
Posted on: Wed, 19 Nov 2014 16:35:52 +0000
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