How do I start?
I haven't been active with this site for a while. Frequently, recurrently, on numerous occasions, etc., I get a pang of despair right at the core of some imagined essence of my being in regards to this site and the whole art of literature and generally with the humanities. With so much quick, superficial and superfluous entertainment out there who would venture to my site and take the time to read and devise between the lines what I'm really trying to impart?
In reality, not many people... Unfortunately.
Ergo, I've been consumed with reading, among other non-literary pursuits. Like Oedipus I'm attempting to obviate my destiny, if there really is such a thing as destiny. I'm attempting to steer the rudder towards something else, something I cannot quite yet envision. I'm striving to be "master of my fate: captain of my soul" (William Ernest Henley, Invictus). Given that I cannot foresee where this new route will take me, I am left to wager my chances and hope I don't end blind and in exile.
So, in the end, what I'm trying to say is that I'm not sure if this site will continue. If it does, I will have achieved a synthesis of all the divergent strings pulling me in multiple directions. If not, I will retract, and much like a hermit keep me to myself.
Am I taking a fatalistic stance? Is this absurdly exaggerating? Maybe, maybe not, who cares.
By the way, I'm currently reading "The Crying of Lot 49" By Thomas Pynchon, along with Euripides' "Medea".
I haven't been active with this site for a while. Frequently, recurrently, on numerous occasions, etc., I get a pang of despair right at the core of some imagined essence of my being in regards to this site and the whole art of literature and generally with the humanities. With so much quick, superficial and superfluous entertainment out there who would venture to my site and take the time to read and devise between the lines what I'm really trying to impart?
In reality, not many people... Unfortunately.
Ergo, I've been consumed with reading, among other non-literary pursuits. Like Oedipus I'm attempting to obviate my destiny, if there really is such a thing as destiny. I'm attempting to steer the rudder towards something else, something I cannot quite yet envision. I'm striving to be "master of my fate: captain of my soul" (William Ernest Henley, Invictus). Given that I cannot foresee where this new route will take me, I am left to wager my chances and hope I don't end blind and in exile.
So, in the end, what I'm trying to say is that I'm not sure if this site will continue. If it does, I will have achieved a synthesis of all the divergent strings pulling me in multiple directions. If not, I will retract, and much like a hermit keep me to myself.
Am I taking a fatalistic stance? Is this absurdly exaggerating? Maybe, maybe not, who cares.
By the way, I'm currently reading "The Crying of Lot 49" By Thomas Pynchon, along with Euripides' "Medea".
No comments:
Post a Comment