[b]Jeanette Winterson
I walk the line that continually threatens to lose its tautness under me, dropping me into the dark pit where there is no meaning.[/b]
I know. It’s parallel to mine.
Time has no meaning, space and place have no meaning, on this journey. All times can be inhabited, all places visited. In a single day the mind can make a millpond of the oceans. Some people who have never crossed the land they were born on have travelled all over the world. The journey is not linear, it is always back and forth, denying the calender, the wrinkles and lines of the body. The self is not contained in any moment or any place, but it is only in the intersection of moment and place that the self might, for a moment, be seen vanishing through a door, which disappears at once.
Sounds like something I’d say. You know, if I knew what it meant.
There are two kinds of writing; the one you write and the one that writes you. The one that writes you is dangerous. You go where you don’t want to go. You look where you don’t want to look.
In that case, there must be three kinds of writing. And probalby a lot more.
The mystics and the churchmen talk about throwing off his body and its desires, being no longer a slave to the flesh. They don’t say that through the flesh we are set free. That our desire for another will lift us out of ourselves more cleanly than anything divine.
It’s true that I’ve never met one that did.
Time is not constant and one minute is not the same length as another.
Not unless you synchronize your watches.
Bigger questions, questions with more than one answer, questions without an answer are harder to cope with in silence. Once asked they do not evaporate and leave the mind to its serener musings. Once asked they gain dimension and texture, trip you on the stairs, wake you at night-time. A black hole sucks up its surroundings and even light never escapes. Better then to ask no questions? Better then to be a contented pig than an unhappy Socrates?
In other words, your guess is as good as mine.