With respect to Socrates, my unexamined life is not worth living. The front room is the face we show everyone but we hide our true self in the back room.
There is something noble in being genuine. And so the new post begins, fresh from another read. And still so susceptible to another’s writing, to another’s style of writing. Amis, well, his writing is more brisk than Self’s, and can cut you just as deep, if not deeper.
I do like that.
Being who you are is right. We can change but we cannot forget. Maybe that is where so much guilt comes from? Forced change and calculated adaptation?
I agree. I am trying to say something and the words press heavily on me like the melee after a football match. Of course, since it is Amis, and not Roth or Updike, it is a football match as in soccer and not a football game as in football.
These words in their rush all fighting to have their say will eventually, maybe soon, bring forth meaning, or possibly, clarity.
For every novel read, and I am reading a few good ones this year, I do the post-analysis eventually arriving at the conclusion I could have written a book like that, I should have written a book like that as I have written it in scraps throughout the years the rest written in my mind, so perfectly formed, and I can no longer write a book like that because it is no longer original, fresh, exciting.
What is encouraging is how many I have come to this conclusion. As if to say, there’s plenty of stories to be had out there, my lad.
Yes, the essays are there, most vital in my belief I can write intelligent more than sound intelligent. When I want to sound inspired I go Cockney. It’s loads of fun. Problem is, and I’ve tried, I feel like a pompous git when I try writing Cockney.
And an initial circle forms. I am genuine in my verbosity and need to be just as such in my writing. There’s always time for taking the piss once you’ve first been taken seriously.
What is important (paramount) is staying inspired. Self-encouragement to keep the wheel spinning.
A quick literal taste and on to something more substantial.
When he tried to think of how quickly it unraveled his mind would not allow the truth out. It seemed false, each scenario, eventually settling on, I will never truly know. Not that it mattered. The thought on the pre-event made as much sense as on the post-event. No, what he was dealing with was a dead body and there was nothing pre or post about it. All that mattered was the present. It was everything.