kelli - i'm not sure what to say outside of a warm and deferent thank you. this poem is one i hold close to my heart (you are right; it is a poem that slays you with its splendour) and the fact you like it has endeared you to me more than you might believe.
i hear what you're saying when you write that you fear that literature causes us to die too many times to live. i often feel that way too. but, of course, the fact that literature can kill us even as it completes us may be a traumatic truth but it is a vital one. for you see, it is the task of fine words to teach us how to live --- but only by also showing us how to die. as Franz Kafka once said, "we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. a book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us." it is through this violence, then, against our icy emotional selves, through this bleeding, that literature makes meaning, that it fills our minds with light. it wounds us to mend us, it kills to create. and that, i guess, is why we love it so and that is why we fear it.
i’ve added you, if you don’t mind. feel free to add me back if you’d like. it would be an honour to get to know you better.
dave, you've made a terrible mistake! i have, of course, returned the favor. but i'll warn you in advance that my personality has slipped by me on a cross-wind. i can't promise you much beyond that, but i'll do my best.
you are right, in all the respects of the word, about life and death and literature. it's seemingly unavoidable: this constant shedding of skin to begin something new after the last few pages of a book. unbelievable.
i hear what you're saying when you write that you fear that literature causes us to die too many times to live. i often feel that way too. but, of course, the fact that literature can kill us even as it completes us may be a traumatic truth but it is a vital one. for you see, it is the task of fine words to teach us how to live --- but only by also showing us how to die. as Franz Kafka once said, "we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. a book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us." it is through this violence, then, against our icy emotional selves, through this bleeding, that literature makes meaning, that it fills our minds with light. it wounds us to mend us, it kills to create. and that, i guess, is why we love it so and that is why we fear it.
i’ve added you, if you don’t mind. feel free to add me back if you’d like. it would be an honour to get to know you better.
dave
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you are right, in all the respects of the word, about life and death and literature. it's seemingly unavoidable: this constant shedding of skin to begin something new after the last few pages of a book. unbelievable.
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