Crooked Finger (crookedfingers) wrote,
Crooked Finger
crookedfingers

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the rapture I get when in writing I seem to be discovering what belongs to what

It is in the flow of being alive in union with Christ Jesus 1:55 PM Thursday afternoon. I did yard work with Carol and then I came inside because I was feeling cold and weak. I ate lunch and then I drifted through the moments of Time. Time will exist when my time is up. I have been reading this afternoon from a book titled, "The Art Of Time In Memoir: Then, Again" essays by Sven Birkerts. As I was reading this book I came across something that I found very insightful about why writers write.

"Reflecting on what it is that makes certain incidents and perceptions from the past stand out, Woolf theorizes that in some way they have provided a shock to the system. The passage can stand as a kind of manifesto or artist's statement, one especially applicable to the memoirist's enterprise: "I only know that many of these exceptional moments brought with them a peculiar horror and a physical collapse; they seemed dominant; myself passive. This suggests that as one gets older one has greater power through reason to provide an explanation; and that this explanation blunts the sledge-hammer force of the blow." The insight goes perfectly with Dillard's bedroom memory, the vividness of the imagining as it is then caged inside the bars of explanation.
Woolf continues:

I think this is true, because though I still have the peculiarity that I received these sudden shocks, they are now always welcome; after the first surprise always feel instantly that they are particularly valuable. And so I go on to suppose that the shock-receiving capacity is what makes me a writer. I hazard the explanation that a shock is at once in my case followed by the desire to explain it. I feel that I have had a blow; but it is not, as I thought as a child, simply a blow from an enemy hidden behind the cotton wool of daily life; it is the strongest pleasure known to me. It is the rapture I get when in writing I seem to be discovering what belongs to what. . . From this I reach what I might call a philosophy. . . that behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we-I mean all human beings-are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art.

This demon of an idea, that there may be a pattern hidden behind the contingent-seeming procession of circumstance, is powerful in Woolf, and nearly overpowering in Nabokov. . ." pg. 45.46 Sven Birkerts
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