[b]Jeanette Winterson
She said she’d often wondered why she wanted to do some things and not do other things at all. Well, it was obvious with some things, but for others, there was no reason there. She’d spent a long time puzzling it out, then she thought that what you’d done in a past life you didn’t need to do again, and what you had to do in the future, you wouldn’t be ready to do now.[/b]
And it doesn’t get much clearer than that.
What is it that you contain?
The Dead. Time. Light patterns of millennia. The expanding universe opening in your gut. Are your twenty-three feet of intestines loaded with stars?
Technically, that’s what they tell us.
My needlework teacher suffered from a problem of vision. She recognised things according to expectation and environment. If you were in a particular place, you expected to see particular things. Sheep and hills, sea and fish; if there was an elephant in the supermarket, she’d either not see it at all, or call it Mrs. Jones and talk about fishcakes. But most likely, she’s do what most people do when confronted with something they don’t understand. Panic.
So, is there a pill for that yet?
The only selfish life is a timid one.
Right, as though it were that simple.
Happiness was still on the other side of a glass door, but at least she could see it through the glass…
On the other hand, wouldn’t that make it even worse?
Academics love to make theories about a body of work, but each book consumes the writer and is the sum of his or her world.
Obviously: Some writers more than others.