The written word is weak. Many people prefer life to it. Life gets your blood going, and it smells good. Writing is mere writing, literature is mere. It appeals only to the subtlest senses--the imagination's vision, and the imagination's hearing--and the moral sense, and the intellect. This writing that you do, that so thrills you, that so rocks and exhilarates you, as if you were dancing next to the band, is barely audible to anyone else. the reader's ear must adjust down from loud life to the subtle, imaginary sounds of the written word. An ordinary reader picking up a book can't yet hear a thing; it will take half an hour to pick up the writing's modulations, its ups and downs and louds and softs.Annie Dillard gets it, far better than I do.
"I’d sit cross-legged in the box, filtering the sand over and over again through an old spaghetti strainer, getting rid of the sticks and leaves that had fallen, until it was almost as fine as right after he poured the sand from the bag. That was perfect sand."
Thursday, October 23, 2008
I won't quote the whole book...
Although I'm tempted to put more than a few paragraphs from Annie Dillard's The Writing Life in blockquotes. I'll stop at one:
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