We authors, petty prodigies of a prodigious era, wish to commune with future generations; but we are ignorant, I think, of posterity’s dwelling place. We put down the wrong address.François–René de Chateaubriand
My 800th post, twelve years in, on this blog. I probably could have spent my time better, either not writing them at all, or by writing more. I’m not sure which would have been worse.
This has not been the best year for writing, for all the obvious reasons. I suspect some people have responded to events by being prolific in whatever they do. I think I have just concentrated on getting through each day.
The world feels such a profoundly odd place right now, and a slippery one too. It is impossible to get a real grasp on anything. Truth morphs into conspiracy theory, conspiracy theory into truth. It is hard to articulate where you are, when you have no idea. And when you think you’ve got something to say it all just feels hopelessly banal in the face of everything else.
I am very lucky that my experience so far has been benign enough that I have nothing truly profound to say. But perhaps I will keep on saying it anyway.