'there are so many stories to tell, it's hard to say why it's one rather than another, it must be because with this story you feel you can tell many stories, that there will be a necessity in it; i see i am explaining badly. i can't explain. it has to be something like falling in love. whatever explains why you chose this story - it may, indeed, draw sap from some childhood grief or longing - hasn't explained much. a story, i mean a long story, a novel, is like an around-the-world-in-eighty-days: you can barely recall the beginning when it comes to an end. but even a long journey must begin somewhere, say, in a room. each of us carries a room within ourselves, waiting to be furnished and peopled, and if you listen closely, you may need to silence everything in your own room, you can hear the sounds of that other room inside your head. you can hear the fire crackling or the clock ticking or (if the window is open) the cry of a coachman or the vroom-vroom of a motorcycle in the alley. or you may not hear any of this, if the room is full of voices. (...) you can hope that you found yourself among largehearted people, passion is a beautiful thing, and so is understanding, the coming to understand something, which is a passion, which is a journey, too.'
(susan sontag - in america)
dzień przerwy do natłoku spraw. z książką i mnóstwem dobrych dźwięków.
obsessed with the mess.
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz