On my table are two books: Wittgenstein's Tractatus and Maggie Nelson's Bluets. I have moments when I think they might be the two most important books I own. But then I remember Beckett and how it's all just footnote to him really. And I can talk Beckett up and down the street and probably will when I've lost my marbles entirely.
Some people find it hard to write about the things they love the most but I find it hard not to, to not shed those words every time I put my hands on the keyboard or lock eyes with somebody who might understand. Not to talk only, every day about those most important ideas for me are... silence, prisms, colour, expressionism, language and the need to give utterance and the failure to give utterance and still the need to give utterance, anxiety, loneliness, all things funny, and that certain look in certain eyes.
And sometimes I wish it was hard to talk because then maybe I'd sleep that dreamless sleep of a little girl being carried across a busy street carried in her father's arms.
This is from Bluets by Maggie Nelson.
100. It often happens that we count our days, as if the act of measurement made us some kind of promise. But really this is like hoisting a harness onto an invisible horse. "There is simply no way that a year from now you're going to feel the way you feel today," a different therapist said to me last year at this time. But though I have learned to act as if I feel differently, the truth is that my feelings haven't really changed.