Read recently that Nabokov, the writer, spent many an hour writing when he was a soldier in the war. Often war would be spitting people in the distance and he would sit there writing all that more furiously. Pen and ink blurring to make a more bearable alternative come alive. Many of his writings, he said, were 'a violin in the void'. Yet its mere playing was his comfort.
It made me think of how our identities are often formed by our subversions of the daily. Our little revolts with the world. Our moments of not sticking to the pattern. Believing or tiring enough to let fear fall back and take a long deep leap into the unknown. Our identities are not in the moments when we smile and laugh. When the world seems at peace. We derive meaning from those moments of distress and turbulence which provide the ripple in the flat sea.
Random thoughts for the morning :)
2 comments:
When the world squeezes us, we find out what's really inside--it comes out, good or bad. :)
:) Ah yes. I would turn the sentence about and say that without the squeezing, one could never find out.. which is infinitely more scary somehow..
Post a Comment