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What contains me? Fear, laziness, the opinion of others, a morbid terror of death and too little joy in life. I am shuttered at either end, a lid on my head, blocks under my feet. The stale self unrhythmed by art or nature.
...There is so little time. This is all the time I've got. This is mine, this small parcel of years, that threatens to spill over on to the pavement and be lost among careless feet. Lost. The water out of the sieve and the river run dry. The quietly contained sea where the waters don't break.
...I blame myself for my part in my crime. Collusion in too little life, too little love. I blame myself. That done, I can forgive myself. Forgive the rotting days where the fruit fell and was not gathered. The waste sad time. Punishment enough. Enough to live wedged in by fear. Call the rain.
(-Jeanette Winterson, Art & Lies)
I'd never read Jeanette Winterson before. Clearly, my loss. I wanted to become the pages of the book just to be as close as possible to those wonderful words. I would like to marry her. Crawl inside her and *be* her.
Back at Smith, back at classes, so it goes. Linsey is now here as well and that is delightful. She is introducing me to the dubious pleasure of eating with other people at meals. I would like to think that with effort, I could become a more social creature. But I fear the truth is simply that I am not.
I am trying, though, so much as someone like me can try. I would like to be able to state that I have no need for social interaction rather than that I am simply incapable of it, after all.
...There is so little time. This is all the time I've got. This is mine, this small parcel of years, that threatens to spill over on to the pavement and be lost among careless feet. Lost. The water out of the sieve and the river run dry. The quietly contained sea where the waters don't break.
...I blame myself for my part in my crime. Collusion in too little life, too little love. I blame myself. That done, I can forgive myself. Forgive the rotting days where the fruit fell and was not gathered. The waste sad time. Punishment enough. Enough to live wedged in by fear. Call the rain.
(-Jeanette Winterson, Art & Lies)
I'd never read Jeanette Winterson before. Clearly, my loss. I wanted to become the pages of the book just to be as close as possible to those wonderful words. I would like to marry her. Crawl inside her and *be* her.
Back at Smith, back at classes, so it goes. Linsey is now here as well and that is delightful. She is introducing me to the dubious pleasure of eating with other people at meals. I would like to think that with effort, I could become a more social creature. But I fear the truth is simply that I am not.
I am trying, though, so much as someone like me can try. I would like to be able to state that I have no need for social interaction rather than that I am simply incapable of it, after all.
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