“Let us never cease from thinking—what is this ‘civilisation’ in which we find ourselves? What are these ceremonies and why should we take part in them? What are these professions and why should we make money out of them?”
— From her anti-war essay “Three Guineas” (1938) Virginia Woolf
“I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.”
Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”Why I Write,” Gangrel (Summer 1946) George Orwell
One great part of every human existence is passed in a state which cannot be rendered sensible by the use of wideawake language, cutanddry grammar and goahead plot.Referring to Finnegans Wake in a letter to Harriet Shaw Weaver (24 November 1926) James Joyce
And with these quotes in mind, these thoughts that seem to make more sense than even the coffee grown cold in my cup, or the snow landing lightly outside the window, things I can touch and see, while words drift in and out of focus and understanding, I do battle with the last chapters of this strange and scarred writing that will pretend to call itself a book.
But wait! One must add a meta description! Well, tear it all up then.