This book's like black holes. It really engulfes you whole.
But Hannah's friend didn__ understand the volatile balancing act between art and sanity, that the act of creation was like walking a tightrope during an earthquake. She didn__ understand Hannah__ stupid need for validation, or that the size of the audience increased the stakes and multiplied the fear. She didn__ understand that creativity was dangerous, that, yes, there were some people who could stand before a canvas, paint a sunset that would bring the world to its knees, and return to their loved ones as a complete person who didn__ hurt, didn__ cry, didn__ spill blood to appease the host of fickle muses. But Hannah did. Hannah__ best ideas__ometimes her only ideas__ere buried beneath the skin.
The Day I Wore Purple
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But Hannah's friend didn__ understand the volatile balancing act between art and sanity, that the act of creation was like walking a tightrope during an earthquake. She didn__ understand Hannah__ stupid need for validation, or that the size of the audience increased the stakes and multiplied the fear. She didn__ understand that creativity was dangerous, that, yes, there were some people who could stand before a canvas, paint a sunset that would bring the world to its knees, and return to their loved ones as a complete person who didn__ hurt, didn__ cry, didn__ spill blood to appease the host of fickle muses. But Hannah did. Hannah__ best ideas__ometimes her only ideas__ere buried beneath the skin.
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Whether consciousness is implanted in us by something divine, or whether it is created by the efforts of our brains, the end result is the same. We are.
Art is inextricably tied to man's survival - not to his physical survival, but to that on which his physical survival depends: to the preservation and survival of his consciousness.
Art, even the art of fullest scope and widest vision, can never really show us the external world. All that it shows us is our own soul, the one world of which we have any real cognisance. And the soul itself, the soul of each one of us, is to each one of us a mystery. It hides in the dark and broods, and consciousness cannot tell us of its workings. Consciousness, indeed, is quite inadequate to explain the contents of personality. It is Art, and Art only, that reveals us to ourselves.
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And he was. Suddenly. From not being to being conscious that he was.