Surely it is an odd way to spend your life - sitting alone in a room with a pen in your hand, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, struggling to put words on pieces of paper in order to give birth to what does not exist, except in your head. Why on earth would anyone want to do such a thing? The only answer I have ever been able to come up with is: because you have to, because you have no choice.
Paul AusterTag: words writing loneliness literature writer paper
So it goes as I work my way down the page, and each cluster of marks is a
word, and each word is a sound in my head, and each time I write another
word, I hear the sound of my own voice, even though my lips are silent.
nadie hace nada en esta vida sin alguien que crea en él
Paul AusterHe would conclude that nothing was real except chance.
Paul AusterWe are not where we are, he finds, but in a false position. Through an infirmity of our natures, we suppose a case, and put ourselves into it, and hence are in two cases at the same time, and it is doubly difficult to get out
Paul AusterWriting is a solitary business. It takes over your life. In some sense, a writer has no life of his own. Even when he’s there, he’s not really there.
Paul AusterTag: writing
Our lives carry us along in ways we cannot control, and almost nothing stays with us. It dies when we do, and death is something that happens to us every day.
Paul AusterTag: death
He was there for you, and yet at the same time
he was inaccessible. You felt there was a secret core in him that could never be penetrated, a mysterious center of hiddenness. To imitate him was somehow to participate in that mystery, but it was also to understand that you could never really know him.
In the end, each life is no more than the
sum of contingent facts, a chronicle of chance intersections, of flukes, of random events that divulge nothing but their own
lack of purpose.
Stories without endings can do nothing but go on forever, and to be caught in one means that you must die before your part in it is played out.
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