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Someone once told me that heroin is so fantastic because the feelings it awakens are akin to those we have as children, when everything is taken care of, the feeling of total security we bask in then, which is so fundamentally good.
When you were born I knew nothing about you, yet I was filled with feelings for you, overwhelming at first, for a birth is overwhelming, even to someone who is merely looking on – it is as if everything in the room grows denser, as if a kind of gravity develops that draws all meaning towards it, so that for a few hours it can only be found there, later becoming more evenly spread out, subjected to the everyday, diluted with the eventlessness of all the hours of the day and yet always there.
Love is many things, most of its forms are fleeting, linked to everything that happens, everything that comes and goes, everything that fills us at first, then empties us out, but unconditional love is constant,
She had a light-filled soul, life flowed through her without encountering many obstacles, and maybe the fact that she didn’t doubt herself, didn’t question herself, somehow meant that what was her self didn’t demand any effort or exertion, leaving plenty of space within her for other people.
for every family has its problems, mine did and yours does and every other family I know; it is part of the condition of our lives.
So what is personality? Is it like a vessel within which the self exists, full of little walls, partitions and hatches, which the self fills up and never gets beyond, until a possible accident or illness alters the walls, partitions and hatches, so that the self settles in a new way, into a new form?
For consciousness can be directed, it can be shaped by ideals and notions as it suits us. Feelings on the other hand cannot be directed, at least not the most powerful of them, but they can be explained in ways we find convenient.
Perhaps in a novel it is that simple, for novels are written to elucidate some aspect of human life, so that something which exists but perhaps lacks form is given a form and becomes visible. Life has no such form.
There was no shortage of people or love around him, the deficiency was within himself, he was unable to receive, unable to form attachments. You see, the beauty of this world means nothing if you stand alone in it.
What is literature an expression of, if not an otherwise inaccessible and in reality non-existent closeness?
When someone is going through a difficult time, the difficulties spread out in concentric circles and touch even peripheral situations and relationships. When darkness falls in one person, fire is lit in the other, and thereby all sense of normality vanishes, unless one struggles to stay within it, without necessarily even realising what one is
The children ran around breathless and excited, shouting and screaming and laughing, for spring had arrived, filled with lightness, light and a billow of unaccustomed feelings.
We come from far away, from terrifying beauty, for a newborn child who opens its eyes for the first time is like a star, is like a sun, but we live our lives amid pettiness and stupidity, in the world of burned hot dogs and wobbly camping tables. The great and terrifying beauty does not abandon us, it is
