nothing vast enters the lives of mortals without ruin
from Antigonick by Sophokles, trans. by Anne Carson

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@eyesonthefloor
nothing vast enters the lives of mortals without ruin
from Antigonick by Sophokles, trans. by Anne Carson
âŠThere is in me something untouched, unstirred, which commands me. That will have to be moved if I am to move wholly.
AnaĂŻs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Henry and June: From âA Journal of Loveâ -The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin (1931-1932)
There ainât no answer. There ainât ever going to be an answer. There never was an answer. Thatâs the answer.
Gertrude Stein
You know how I love secrecy. It is the only thing that can make modern life wonderful or mysterious to us. The commonest thing is delightful if only one hides it.
Oscar Wilde
Arsonist
Iâm thinking about the eradication of fire from the mouth; no blue breath, no desire. How fatigued the heart must be to console itself amidst black smoke. Desperate for connection. Weâve come a long way from precious understanding; the stroking of fingers at the dinner table. Eager eyes under first light of first years. I donât think itâs sad anymore, I just accept it for what it is. I even embrace the flames of my own nature, more than I ever have before. Thereâs no bad blood, there is just the absence of feeling. I thought I could smell and taste it in the water, it was just the guise I used to cover up an even more horrifying honesty: I donât feel anything for you, as you, me. What we created was phlegmatic safety, yet even the safest places still burn. A farmerâs field, houses, grocery stores, churches. I donât place blame on anyoneâs shoulders. And I sure as hell: donât extinguish my yearning to rebuild either, some new brilliant, all consuming; forest fire.
Feeling in the moments of deathlike existence: all people are worthy of love. Awakening you feel the worldâs bitterness; in it is all your unresolved guilt; your poem an imperfect atonement.
Georg Trakl, 1914
May I write words more naked than flesh, stronger than bone, more resilient than sinew, sensitive than nerve.
Sappho
The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?
Oscar Wilde, De Profundis Â
You see, I want a lot. Perhaps I want everything: the darkness that comes with every infinite fall and the shivering blaze of every step up.
So many live on and want nothing, and are raised to the rank of prince by the slippery ease of their light judgments.
But what you love to see are faces that do work and feel thirst.
You love most of all those who need you as they need a crowbar or a hoe.
You have not grown old, and it is not too late to dive into your increasing depths where life calmly gives out its own secret.
- Rainer Maria Rilke
After a traumatic experience, the human system of self-preservation seems to go onto permanent alert, as if the danger might return at any moment.
Judith Lewis Herman
I am lonely, yet not everybody will do. I donât know why, some people fill the gaps and others emphasize my loneliness.
AnaĂŻs Nin
There is no fire like lust, and no chains like those of hate. There is no net like illusion, and no rushing torrent like desire.
The Dhammapada
âGettingâ yourself to write
Yesterday, I was trawling iTunes for a decent podcast about writing. After a while, I gave up, because 90% of them talked incessantly about âself-discipline,â âmaking writing a habit,â âgetting your butt in the chair,â âgetting yourself to write.â To me, thatâs six flavors of fucked up.
Okay, yesâI see why we might want to âmake writing a habit.â If we want to finish anything, weâll have to write at least semi-regularly. In practical terms, I get it.
But maybe before we force our butts into chairs, we should ask why itâs so hard to âgetâ ourselves to write. We arenât deranged; our brains say âI donât want to do thisâ for a reason. We should take that reason seriously.
Most of us resist writing because it hurts and itâs hard. Well, you say, writing isnât supposed to be easyâbut thereâs hard, and then thereâs hard. For many of us, sitting down to write feels like being asked to solve a problem that is both urgent and unsolvableââI have to, but itâs impossible, but I have to, but itâs impossible.â It feels fucking awful, so naturally we avoid it.
We canât âmake writing a habit,â then, until we make it less painful. Something we donât just âgetâ ourselves to do.
The âmake writing a habitâ people are trying to do that, in their way. If you do something regularly, the theory goes, you stop dreading it with such special intensity because it just becomes a thing you do. But my god, if youâre still in that âdreading itâ phase and someone tells you to âmake writing a habit,â that sounds horrible.
So many of us already dismiss our own pain constantly. If we turn writing into another occasion for mute suffering, for numb and joyless endurance, we 1) will not write more, and 2) should not write more, because we should not intentionally hurt ourselves.
Seriously. If you want to write more, donât ask, âhow can I make myself write?â Ask, âwhy is writing so painful for me and how can I ease that pain?â Show some compassion for yourself. Forgive yourself for not being the person you wish you were and treat the person you are with some basic decency. Give yourself a fucking break for avoiding a thing that makes you feel awful.
Daniel José Older, in my favorite article on writing ever, has this to say to the people who admonish writers to write every day:
Hereâs what stops more people from writing than anything else: shame. That creeping, nagging sense of âshould be,â âshould have been,â and âif only I hadâŠâ Shame lives in the body, it clenches our muscles when we sit at the keyboard, takes up valuable mental space with useless, repetitive conversations. Shame, and the resulting paralysis, are what happen when the whole world drills into you that you should be writing every day and youâre not.
The antidote, he says, is to treat yourself kindly:
For me, writing always begins with self-forgiveness. I donât sit down and rush headlong into the blank page. I make coffee. I put on a song I like. I drink the coffee, listen to the song. I donât write. Beginning with forgiveness revolutionizes the writing process, returns its being to a journey of creativity rather than an exercise in self-flagellation. I forgive myself for not sitting down to write sooner, for taking yesterday off, for living my life. That shame? I release it. My body unclenches; a new lightness takes over once that burden has floated off. There is room, now, for story, idea, life.
Writing has the potential to bring us so much joy. Why else would we want to do it? But first weâve got to unlearn the pain and dread and anxiety and shame attached to writingânot just so we can write more, but for our own sakes! Forget âmaking writing a habitââhow about âbeing less miserableâ? Thatâs a worthy goal too!
Luckily, there are ways to do this. But before I get into them, please absorb this lesson: if you want to write, start by valuing your own well-being. Start by forgiving yourself. And listen to yourself when something hurts.
Next post: freewriting
Ask me a question or send me feedback! Podcast recommendations welcomeâŠ
I need to read this again and again and again
Donât be afraid to sufferâtake your heaviness /and give it back to the earthâs own weight; / the mountains are heavy, the oceans are heavy.
Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Poetry of Rilke;Â âSonnets to Orpheusâ (via cyclicality)
O sadness without cause, O dream, O dread, / O endless depth.
Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Poetry of Rilke: The Book of Images;Â âChildhoodâ (via luthienne)
The difficulty is that I have no mouth through which I can speak. I canât make myself understood, not in your world, the world of bodies, of tongues and fingers; and most of the time I have no listeners, not on your side of the river. Those of you who may catch the odd whisper, the odd squeak, so easily mistake my words for breezes rustling the dry reeds, for bats at twilight, for bad dreams.
Margaret Atwood, The Penelopiad (Canongate Books Ltd., 2005)
[âŠ] I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.
Virginia Woolf, from âThe Wavesâ