Still shy of a third of the first part of Proust’s La Recherche, I feel myself dragging like a slug between the opposite ends of the pole: fragments, wholesome sentences, pages, each respectively reread manifold, each unity hopelessly compounding like a geometric sequence of unclear polynomial coefficient, the semantics chartered by a much cleverer mind with a knack for units of expression as lengthy and independently epic as the movements to a Mahler symphony played at one-fifth tempo.
The challenges I arbitrarily cater for myself, architecting those intricate trench channels and cavities filled with all sorts of not entirely fatal but constricting gases and debris and navigating without specialized equipment in a manner not entirely gung ho but with certain military grace of a volunteer unit striving towards some arbitrary measure of excellence devoid of all but an opaque crimson notion of the what, the why and the when.
Hope that’s plain vanilla clear of where I stand, or at least as clear as the book I’ve been reading.
Questions, comments? Connect.