Re-considering Disconnectedness



It ‘s as though I bought a frame only to find the picture looks so much less colorful, so much smaller, so un-real when affixed.  There ‘s really no one thing missing from the picture; it’s just I thought the frame would highlight it differently.

There ‘s been a sharp drop-off in reading for any purposes since the end of last term.  But I feel a little freer from ‘reading for’.  Some justification can be derived from Schopenhauer’s essays: too much of my thinking may have been mis-colored by my readings.  I ‘m no less bibliophile than ever, but I can almost see that books are worthless if I ‘m not a prepared dialogue partner.


Elsewise I leave the dinner table filled with someone else’s erudition, spilling out aphorisms I half grasp and can use to impress but not to leave an impression.  Has anyone meaningfully conversed with a tape-recorder ever? I have enjoyed learning new ways to say things I had never conceived of, but was n’t the goal to catch concepts useful for me?  Who is my discourse for?

In discovering reading afresh, and finally the necessity of writing, I felt afraid of ‘not reading’.  But at last ‘reading for’ can be questioned — while I ‘m unable to lend full energy to a non-productive task I at last have to be selective.  I ‘m reading almost always, recalling little, and becoming, by such a small margin, a little more connected to what ‘s in front of me and less connected to the peripherals.


Anxiety remains: will I cut off the possibility of the thoughts I want approaching because I have n’t supplied the correct material — an Odysseus bidding the useful dead with gestures when he should use haemoglobin — if thoughts step into the light without our willful consent, what is the value of practiced thinking?

For no thinker I care for is so isolated as to be without peers.

So whenever I come across energy which can justly be spared, it shall be first employed in reflection, and only then in finding conversation partners (live or merely breathing).


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