Thursday, July 31, 2014

Waking in a kind of a strange fog...

Decent writing should leave an event open to interpretation.  One day you might see things one way, the next the other, maybe even as opposite.  Complexity.  Then you've achieved more, getting more of the truth in, the truth ultimately undefinable.

If something is strongly proclaimed, it may well be crap.

Writing is an odd thing to be doing.  But there must be something natural about it, and rather than condemning its practitioners to ranks of deviancy, we treat it as an art form, something worth study, even if we're not sure why, other than that people seem to do it, to be drawn to it.  Is it because of certain psychological situations, or a certain kind of reaction such as a youthful rebelling?  Perhaps the writing came out of a strange coincidence, as maybe indeed such an act deserves...  as if to deal with a fluke happening, something strange.  Should we get judgmental about the origins of writing?   Is it part of a healing process?

But it is an odd act.  Roth's understanding that writing is an act of offense to family life, completely selfish I will leave to his sharper accomplished mind.  But you could say, Mr. Writer, you've accomplished nothing with your life;  you've not tried anything, not made an effort, sat in your room analyzing, but what comes of it all?

Chekhov included a darker opinion of artists in his vision, often quite directly dismissive, seeing the idle frivolity of it, the indecency...  To include the different sides of all things, the masculine, the feminine, the positive, the negative, is sign of a thinker's vitality.

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