Heart laid out.

When I give up english, I'm shaky rather than secure. I'm weak. 
Before I became a writer, I lacked a clear, precise identity. It was 
through writing that I was able to feel fulfilled. 
What does it mean, for a writer, to write without her own authority?
Can I call myself an author if I don't feel authoritative?
How is it possible, that when I write 
I feel both freed and confined, constricted. 

Why does the imperfect, spare new voice attract me?
Why does poverty satisfy me?
What does it meant to give up a palace to live practically on the streets,
a shelter, so fragile.
Maybe because from the creativity point of view there is nothing so 
dangerous as security.

I wonder what the relationship is between freedom and limits.
I wonder how a prison can resemble a paradise.
I wish for something else, something I probably shouldn't wish for.
But I think that the need to write always comes from desperation,
along with hope.

I know that one should have a thorough knowledge of the language one 
writes in. I know that I lack true mastery. I know that my writing is
something premature, reckless, always approximate.
I'd like to apologize. I'd like to explain the source of this impulse of

Why do I write? To investigate the mystery of existence. To tolerate myself.
To get closure to everything that is outside of me.

If I want to understand what moves me, what confuses me, what pains me - 
everything that makes me react, in short - I have to put it into wards.

Writing is my only way of absorbing and organizing life. Otherwise it would
terrify me, it would upset me too much. What passes without being put into
words, without being transformed and, in a certain sense, purified by the 
crucible of writing, has no meaning to me. Only words that endure seem real.
They have a power, a  value superior to us

Given that I try to decipher everything through writing, may be writing in
english is simply my way of learning the language in a more profound, more
stimulating way. If I didn't write, if I didn't work with words, I wouldn't 
feel that I'm present on the earth.

What does a word mean? And a life? In the end, it seems to me, the same
thing. Just as a word can have many dimensions, many nuances, great 
complexity, so, too, can a person, a life. Language is the mirror, the 
principal metaphor.

Because ultimately the meaning of a word, like that of a person, is
boundless, ineffable.

Thank you from the pith of my heart, Jhumpa Lahiri.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s