It seems to me that both the artist and the philosopher are preoccupied with the same domain, that of the self.
One seeks to cling to the self, to explore and expand it, to eke out a place of one's own. For the other, all attempts at uniqueness seem folly.
One seeks expression; the other, release. One yearns to be visible; the other will settle for nothing but oblivion.
Trouble is, I don't know who's what.
***
The smallness of your heart comes in various shapes. But then that is bearable even though it's the one thing you have been trying to escape.
What is inescapable, and hence unbearable, is when you confront it in someone you don't want to confront it in.
***
Anger and desire seem to be conjoined. You distill anger from your spirit and later you realize that desire has slinked out the back door. And when anger makes a special appearance, desire starts licking the edges of your soul. While the artist needs both, the philosopher seems dead set against them.
About Me
- musafir
- "A man is the history of his breaths and thoughts, acts, atoms and wounds, love, indifference, and dislike; also of his race and nation, the soil that fed him and his forebears, the stones and sands of his familiar places, long-silenced battles and struggles of conscience, of the smiles of girls and the slow utterance of old women, of accidents and the gradual action of inexorable law, of all this and something else too, a single flame which in every way obeys the laws that pertain to Fire itself, and yet is lit and put out from one moment to the next, and can never be relumed in the whole waste of time to come." Possession by A.S. Byatt
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