Means to Survive

from Petite Curie

from Petite Curie

22 July 2013
10:58 am
Edinburgh

T. —

The morning has started off slowly. With a book, a cup of tea and some crumpets, could I be any more British right now?

*

I have a pull towards reading today, towards writing and copying. I told Andrew last week that I think I was born in the wrong century. I would make a fantastic scribe. I told Emily yesterday that I’m tired of trying to fit jobs that I’m not good for. I want to focus on strengthening what I do well and hopefully one day someone will hire me for that. I tell a lot of people a lot of things, but when I come to myself I seem to run out of insight quite often.

*

Example
William Matthews

Imagine the Hotel Lucide, the set for the third act of The Inverted Comma. But in an old farmhouse outside Ithaca, New York, I can’t. It’s March: a skim of frozen mud and dirty snow, and under it an ooze beginning like pure longing. On the desk before me, a photograph of Nabokov and his wife. Be careful now. The mind that will not cease teasing itself means to survive. It is like a discovered check: the elegant divisions lead themselves away, and it has always been there. Mate. Love is the last work, the imagination’s regicide. There are no tricks of perspective on a flat cleared space, except the earth is imperceptibly curved. Like love, the straight line is a visionary parody. It is the cowbird I invent to watch through my streaked study window, my eyes shining above the desk like binoculars of light.

*

I bought A Year of Mornings: 3191 Miles Apart. It just came today. I opened it, expecting to read stories. I forgot that photographs are their own kinds of stories. I don’t have the patience for interpretation today. I’ll be glad that I have the book later. In that moment, though, I was much more grateful for our letters here.

Good morning,
M

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