A glorious day, weather wise. The kind for a long walk in the park with the dog. The daily news filled with a mix of nonsense and horror. Walking down the street yesterday, one of the tall evergreens was shedding countless packets of seed. They formed a fragrant carpet on the sidewalk, most of them lost to any useful purpose. There’s nothing fragrant or pleasant about the horrors but sometimes, I get the feeling human lives are like those packets of seeds. Why the tight coil of darkness and light, I don’t know. I’m just one of those countless packets of seeds myself.
The title intrigued this morning so, of course, I read The New York Times article under the heading: When It Comes to Reading, is Pleasure Suspect? Didn’t learn much from the two opinions , other than the fact that most of what we enjoy, we can’t explain. Which will have to do for now, since I’m more interested in using my time away from work on reading and writing than I am in philosophical questions in their abstract forms.
A lot of rewriting ahead which isn’t as discouraging as it may sound. Re-writing implies I’ve written already i.e. there’s something to work from, no matter how clumsy the wording, the pacing, the plausibility or lack thereof.
For those characters in story least likely to attain sainthood, this quote from Goethe’s Faust that Bulgakov uses as his opening to Part One in The Master and Margarita:
… and so who are you, after all?
-I am part of the power
which forever wills evil
and forever works good.
Which is no consolation whatsoever for the ones subjected to evil. But since beliefs are irrational by definition, and since humans seem to need beliefs as much as they need air, food and drink, I like to believe in the power of the beauty I see outside my window this morning, even knowing no such beauty can exist for others at this very same moment. I doubt I can take away any of their pain by refusing to enjoy the light when it is there.
Coffee? Walk in the park with the dog? And so on. Allez.