The days are crossed off the calendar one by one. Time is passing by without abation. I don't know what happened. But here I am, removed from everything, isolated, alone, and afraid of what I may become.
Becoming requires courage. Courage is changing one's ways - to mend strife, to heal from past transgressions and move on. I have a passion for writing. It is catharsis meeting creation; confession encountering repression. I can write what I dare not say. At times, the notebook is indeed the thinker's only sanctuary. A clean crisp page does not prejudge. The blank page is receptive to all things. Hence, the neurotic fear of what others may say; the prying gaze of the skeptic - who sees through to uncover 'intentions' and 'motives' - is absent at the origin of any work. But it returns.
When Franz Kafka left Max Brod instructions to destroy all his unpublished writings, did he anticipate the misinterpretations and appropriations that would come stem from the word "Kafkaesque"? The dilemma for the writer, who enjoys the act of writing itself, is that he has no control over what an audience will do with his creation. This is, at the same time, the greatness and tragedy of the writer. In letting it become what it may, the writer is transformed in the process, for better and for worse.
Kafka and Orwell are not known for their day jobs. Their personas are, in most instances, derivations of their literary style. Kafkaesque? Orwellian? These words initiate neophytes into worlds which exist in words and the imaginary. Catchwords, however, are often taken as the "end all and be all", indicative of a Cliff's notes approach to literature so prevalent in modernity.
But what happens to the human person behind the words? He is attached to generalization. He becomes the generalization. He can be described in a single word, a definition in a dictionary or citation in an encyclopedia, or, worse, the inspiration for a psuedo-ideology subscribed to by stauchly loyal, yet utterly oblivious and misguided, admirers. The violence of interpretation cannot be solved by simply abstaining from it. The violence of interpretation is necessary for the act of writing. Interpretations are often, if not explicitly so, present in the work itself. But the valuation of a particular interpretation over and above all others is thoughtless, perverse, and necessarily fundamentalist.
The universe created by a writer, like our own, is imperfect - as Joyce's fascination with meticulous detail in Ulysses exposes. Interpretation provides an aperture of a complex and flawed universe. The skilled writer - or more appropriately, novelist - recreates time and space, distinct, whether minutely or considerably, from the lived "reality". It is not the task of the reader to displace one illusion with another. The interpretative act involves a sense of play, aiming to dissolve the seriousness of dogmatism. Of course, playfulness taken to an extreme, i.e. leaving one with no foundations, establishes relativism as a new seriousness; creating a strict adherence to the the idyl of play. The Dioynesian without the Apollonian is decadent. The Apollonian without the Dioynesian remains sterile. Despite this, criticism plays an integral part in how we read.
Criticism can be lowest form of expression. Conversely, it may also be a most honest and courageous act. Only the honest critic can reveal insight. Those driven by interest, by feelings, or by passions, be it good or bad, are doing a disservice to the work.
Ignorance mars the creature of curiousity. Passion clouds rationality as much as rationality blunts passion. Virile masculinity is empty without silent sureness and poised conviction. To act for the sake of action, without regard to paradox or the consideration of another's claim, is simply bullheaded ignorance and nothing more. But to remain an educated fool, a mute who stands idly by - indulging in safe knowledge rather than stepping forward - is the most cowardly of inactions.
On this page, in this notebook, I can write this with unparalleled conviction. However, when confronted with the situation, would I stand and state this with a similar conviction? Or would I shrink away from confrontation, content only to write in my journal? I don't know. It bothers me to no end. For nothing puzzles me more than this question. Of course, the moment may not have come for me to make that stand. Courage is common for those on the sideline. It, however, is an uncommon quality for those truly confronted with a situation, a dilemma, that demands thoughtful action; when mere capitulation is dangerously inadequate.
