Quote:
Originally Posted by MikeWaters
From what I can tell re: how other people talk about Wallace's writing, his main gift was his voice. A virtuoso voice that could go up and down the scales, play the arpeggios, and even throw in a few Satriani solos.
What happens when an author doesn't like his voice, or tires of it? What happens when an author wants to do something that he feels is more meaningful, but can't? What happens when you reach into your pockets for your golden coins, only to find that they are empty, and the coins were nothing more than something you could imagine, but not conjure?
To have the gift is one thing. To not have the gift and never know it is another. But to not have the gift, and knows of its absence acutely, is a special curse
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Agreed. Thanks for engaging.
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"Now I say that I know the meaning of my life: 'To live for God, for my soul.' And this meaning, in spite of its clearness, is mysterious and marvelous. Such is the meaning of all existence." Levin, Anna Karenina, Part 8, Chapter 12
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