tavie.com

So in the book I'm currently reading, the author quotes Kafka at the beginning of the second story. The quote resonated big, clanging, vibrating chords with me. It's why I think my opinion is fairly worthless, and why people seek said opinion so often anyway. It's why I can't speak coherently about the geniuses around me, and simply dissolve into bumbling awe. (See, oh, any post whatsoever about, for example, the Baby Geniuses, mentors and the like.)

The actors by their presence always convince me, to my horror, that most of what I've written about them until now is false. It is false because I write about them with steadfast love (even now, while I write it down, this, too, becomes false) but varying ability, and this varying ability does not hit off the real actors loudly and correctly but loses itself dully in this love that will never be satisfied with the ability and therefore thinks it is protecting the actos by preventing this ability from exercising itself.

And then, were that enough, the next quote, from Kierkegaard, rams the sucker on home perfectly:

It is (to describe it figuratively) as if an author were to make a slip of the pen, and as if this clerical error became conscious of being such. Perhaps this was no error but in a far higher sense was an essential part of the whole exposition. It is, then, as if this clerical error were to revolt against the author, out of hatred for him, were to forbid him to correct it, and were to say, "No, I will not be erased, I will stand as a witness against thee, that thou art a very poor writer."

Oh, Buddy Glass, I do so love you with my useless-- although not cheap, not cheap, anyway-- love.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:07 AM | shower me with attention