And then I discovered that to be a writer was not (as I had imagined) a state -- of competence, or achievement, or fame, or content -- at which one arrived and where one stayed. There was a special anguish attached to the career: whatever the labor of any piece of writing, whatever its creative challenges and satisfactions, time had always taken me away from it. And, with time passing, I felt mocked by what I had already done; it seemed to belong to a time of vigor, now past for good. Emptiness, restlessness built up again; and it was necessary once more, out of my internal resources alone, to start on another book, to commit myself to that consuming process again.
-v.s.naipaul
Thanks to Peggy Payne for recommending this wonderful book.
4 comments:
The snow and the tree, and the chair, waiting so patiently. Makes me feel peaceful, grateful to be inside and warm, a tank full of heating oil and lots of blankets.
I had a similar feeling when I looked at the image.
It was actually warmer yesterday than it had been here - but something about all that white and the eerie wonderful light snow casts made it seem cold.
Hope you are warm and snuggly today!
billie
I completely relate to these observations by V.S. There is an aspect to our craft that shifts time into various cycles of passage, sometime speeding while simultaneously slowing.
There is a beautiful anguish, indeed, but also respite at the summit. If one gets that far. It isn't always necessary, or our destination. In fact, the trudging is what gives music to our bones, flutes the blood to express itself in red mist and gives color to both setting and rising suns and moons.
Yes, I like this very much. Thanks for posting it, Billie. :-)
You're most welcome. I immediately resonated with the passage when I read it and am glad you do too.
I am as fascinated by the process of writing as I am the writing itself. For some of us, life seems to be quite entwined with the ebb and flow of the writing work.
billie
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