Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Hearts are Magnets
Pour R, ta lettre en souffrance.Kafka once asserted that our own writing betrays us because its truth is always contradictory, ambiguous and retrospective. Our truths, therefore, suffer in silence, undelivered, left in the dead-letter department. The real letter is the one we never actually write, or perhaps it's the letter that is never sent, awaiting the conclusion that never unfolds. Intimacy dissipates with communication. If there is too much explanation, it crumbles. One has to be discreet, brief, fleeting. The brevity, the evanescence, the sublime chime of human nature makes for a tantalising dance. Genuine intimacy is in the intermittent gesture. Modern love is likened to a consumer product, a monstrous commodity without a hint of charm, involving a constant need to communicate every apparent intimacy. Stripped of its specificity, the aura of love is a momentary one and it rapidly deteriorates.
Ethelinde at 12:19 pm