15 January 2012

0 franck, dan. separation, 58-59.



He takes notes. Not because they might someday be a book, but out of necessity. He is simply unable to concentrate on any other task. Writing makes him feel like he is battening down the hatches, which makes his terrors subside, like the fluttering wings of a bird landing on a beach.


He writes to purge himself, to give some direction to the excavation of his own feelings, and perhaps to win her back. He writes because he cannot do otherwise.


When he rereads his notes, he sees a novelistic dimension in the words and deeds that a hundred thousand others have spoken and lived before him. There are times when all of them- she, the children, himself- seem like characters in a novel that he instigates rather than takes part in. Had he not been a writer, pride would keep him from going on. But a writer at work knows only one kind of pride: writing well. 


He keeps his pages in a file folder bearing the label of a regular column he writes for a literary journal: trash.


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