Time
(Excerpted from "Excursus on the Sense of Time," from The Magic Mountain, by Thomas Mann. Emphasis mine.)
Ultimately, there is something odd about settling in somewhere new--about the perhaps laborious process of getting used to new surroundings and fitting in, a task we undertake almost for its own sake and with the definite intention of abandoning the place again as soon as it is accomplished, or shortly thereafter, and returning to our previous state. We insert that sort of thing into the mainstream of our lives as a kind of "recreation,"which is to say: a refreshing, revitalizing exercise of the organism, because it was in immediate danger of overindulging itself in the uninterrupted monotony of daily life, of languishing and growing indifferent. And what is the cause of the enervation and apathy that arise when the rules of life are not abrograted from time to time? ... The cause is ... something psychological, our very sense of time itself--which, if it flows with uninterrupted regularity, threatens to elude us and which is so closely related to and bound up with our sense of life that the one sense cannot be weakened without the second's experiencing pain and injury. A great many false ideas have been spread about the nature of boredom. It is generally believed that by filling time with things new and interesting, we can make it "pass," by which we mean "shorten" it; monotony and emptiness, however, are said to weigh down and hinder its passage. This is not true under all conditions. Emptiness and monotony may stretch a moment or even and hour and make it "boring," but they can likewise abbreviate and dissolve large, indeed the largest units of time, until they seem nothing at all. Conversely, rich and interesting events are capable of filling time, until hours, even days, are shortened and speed past on wings; whereas on a larger scale, interest lends the passage of time breadth, solidity, and weight, so that years rich in events pass much more slowly than do paltry, bare, featherweight years that are blown before the wind and are gone. What people call boredom is actually and abnormal compression of time caused by monotony--uninterrupted uniformity can shrink large spacesof time until the heart falters, terrified to death. When one day is like every other, then all days are like one, and perfect homogeneity would make the longest life seem short, as if it had flown by in a twinkling. Habit arises when our sense of time falls asleep, or at least, grows dull; and if the years of youth are experienced slowly, while the later years of life hurtle past at an ever-increasing speed, it must be habit that causes it. We know full well that the insertion of new habits or the changing of old ones is the only way to preserve life, to renew our sense of time, to rejuvenate, intensify, and retard our experience of time--and thereby renew our sense of life itself. That is the reason for every change of scenery and air, for a trip to the shore: the experience of a variety of several episodes. The first few days in anew place have a youthful swing to them, a kind of sturdy long stride--that lasts for about six to eight days. Then, to the extent that we "settle in," the gradual shortening becomes noticeable. Whoever clings to life, or better, wants to cling to life, may realize his horror that the days have begun to grow light again and are scurrying past; and the last week--of, let us say, four--is uncanny in its fleeting transience.
I think that I have had roughly carved versions of these thoughts before, and they have served to motivate my life now. I have sensed the pulse of time quickly for the past five weeks, but look back on a very long, rich--complex, in a certain sense--summer.
Some people I know are deathly afraid of change. I used to fear change so much myself, but I think concrete realizations like the ones articulated in the quoted passage embedded a new module of value in me, whereby I now fear constancy. Last summer I felt this sort of dread as I worked my extremely comfortable day job--happy, really, but aware that at any moment I could slip, lose my sense of time, and find myself emerging from unconsciousness five or ten years later and older.
Now, I look to the recent past of this summer, and find that I cannot look at all of it at once. If I look back at all it is with my nose pressed to it so that I can see the details. The craftsmanship, I don't mind saying, excellent.
And I look forward, at the future which I have done what I can to prepare ahead of me, and I see more life like this. August involves more traveling. Then the move in to New York City. And immediately, plans to apply to grad school--maybe to defer a year or two years, if I can, but it is an escape hatch should monotony sneak up behind me and threaten to steal years of my life.
All the same, right now I find myself weary. I have less than a week left of the Europe trip, but I find myself working hard to suspend the desire to just be home again. To rest for a few days. I am human, after all, and moreover endowed with a strong instinct for "settling in" which places me at odds with myself.
But this is all just speculation into the future, which is surely useless when it is such an unknown territory. I think I'll have to just wait and see.