8 August 2013
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August, says a poem.
A passing conversation with my sister: how old we were, how the days are consumed like the pages of a book. I remember I’m twenty-seven. I remember how carefully I planned my life, how things didn’t work out exactly as I’d hoped, how things blew up in my face. In a moment of clarity I realise that there is nothing linear about the way I live, that I may be going through cycles, or weaving new directions entirely.
I feel like I have written about this before. A constant refrain. But maybe–maybe I am meant to repeat it until I finally, truly understand what it means.
I have nothing to say about choice. Writers know nothing about their own work, and the less they talk about it, the better. The work speaks for itself. Or else it doesn’t. Let the reader draw his own conclusions. As for me, I sit in the dark and listen to the words inside me. I don’t know where they come from. I never have, and by now I’m convinced I never will.
– Paul Auster, from This is My Best: Great Writers Share Their Favorite Work (edited by Retha Powers and Kathy Kiernan)
I tell myself: I am the same girl that was on that boat, whispering keep rowing, keep rowing, under her breath.