Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.
Kafka on the Shore- Haruki Murakami
The Shadow of the Wind- Carlos Ruiz Zafon
The Realm of Possibility- David Levithan
Why Does the Word Exist?- Jim Holt
Wittgenstein’s Mistress- David Markson
2666- Roberto Bolano
The Last Lingua Franca- Nicholas Ostler
Don’t Sleep, There Are Snakes- Daniel L. Everett
What do you folks think? Have you read any of these?
I beg you to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.
How often people speak of art and science as though they were two entirely different things, with no interconnection. An artist is emotional, they think, and uses only his intuition; he sees all at once and has no need of reason. A scientist is cold, they think, and uses only his reason; he argues carefully step by step, and needs no imagination. That is all wrong. The true artist is quite rational as well as imaginative and knows what he is doing; if he does not, his art suffers. The true scientist is quite imaginative as well as rational, and sometimes leaps to solutions where reason can follow only slowly; if he does not, his science suffers.
Hemingway knew the secret. I mean, he was a lush and a bad man in many ways, but he knew the secret. You get up and, first thing in the morning, you do your 500 words. Do it every day and you’ve got a book in eight or nine months.
Bill Gates’s favorite author, who has published more than 30 books, attests to the power of work ethic, echoing E. B. White’s contention that “a writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper,” Chuck Close’s assertion that "inspiration is for amateurs – the rest of us just show up and get to work." Tchaikovsky and Jack White would agree.
Or, as Isabel Allende aptly put it, "Show up, show up, show up, and after a while the muse shows up, too."
My dear, I don’t know what to do today, help me decide. Should I cut myself open and pour my heart on these pages? Or should I sit here and do nothing, nobody’s asking anything of me afterall. Should I jump off the cliff that has my heart beating so and develop my wings on the way down? Or should I step back from the edge, and let the others deal with this thing called courage. Should I stare back at the existential abyss that haunts me so and try desperately to grab from it a sense of self? Or should I keep walking half-asleep, only half-looking at it every now and then in times in which I can’t help doing anything but? Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee? Falsely yours.