At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in it's own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky.
The real reason why so many artists now take to politics, __ommitment_ and so on is that they are rushing into a discipline, any discipline at all, which will save them from the poison of the word __rtist_ used by the enemy. I remember very clearly the moments in which that novel was born. The pulse beat, violently; afterwards, when I knew I would write, I worked out what I would write. The __ubject_ was almost immaterial. Yet now what interests me is precisely this _ why did I not write an account of what had happened, instead of shaping a __tory_ which had nothing to do with the material that fuelled it. Of course, the straight, simple, formless account would not have been a __ovel_, and would not have got published, but I was genuinely not interested in __eing a writer_ or even in making money. I am not talking now of that game writers play with themselves when writing, the psychological game _ that written incident came from that real incident, that character was transposed from that one in life, this relationship was the psychological twin of that. I am simply asking myself: Why a story at all _ not that it was a bad story, or untrue, or that it debased anything. Why not, simply, the truth?
The Golden Notebook
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The real reason why so many artists now take to politics, __ommitment_ and so on is that they are rushing into a discipline, any discipline at all, which will save them from the poison of the word __rtist_ used by the enemy. I remember very clearly the moments in which that novel was born. The pulse beat, violently; afterwards, when I knew I would write, I worked out what I would write. The __ubject_ was almost immaterial. Yet now what interests me is precisely this _ why did I not write an account of what had happened, instead of shaping a __tory_ which had nothing to do with the material that fuelled it. Of course, the straight, simple, formless account would not have been a __ovel_, and would not have got published, but I was genuinely not interested in __eing a writer_ or even in making money. I am not talking now of that game writers play with themselves when writing, the psychological game _ that written incident came from that real incident, that character was transposed from that one in life, this relationship was the psychological twin of that. I am simply asking myself: Why a story at all _ not that it was a bad story, or untrue, or that it debased anything. Why not, simply, the truth?
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Mind", can't make differences between real and not..., (OFF NOW THAT..., then that...), you are saying lie after lie..., then believing in false stuff. And thinking in positive sides so to scream not much as the other do, but as always you one moment scream you can't stop it... Now putting against me a knife and saying "Go away... give me my daughter... give me her back"..., don't you see the people laugh at you, don't you see it. Look their faces, with so many smiles, but they aren't people, they are from the army, off, off for god sake they are soldiers which have guns. Have killed few people, have taken your daughter and they are many as a number than you and your whole family... Probably this part as an General I must skip it, because it's logical however look it and from this side, nobody will sacrifice so you to be happy... you will die.. O, o, the poor little girl crying in front of the people, she just saw her mother pointing with a knife against the soldiers and now she is killed by one of the soldiers.
GreenHollyWood asked me "How I sleep?", after all, after this horror and terror. The truth is that I close the one eye 1-2 seconds go and then the other... and I sleep. To to don't forget, if we will be friends I enjoy the horror..., I like to see myself scared!?
What your mind sees when you close your eyes marks the entrance to an endless universe: your imagination.
It was in that small lack of movement that Poet could see true horror. A mirror held up to the human race and how it can be manipulated. Ruined.
To see through the illusion of duality, remember that fear and darkness have no substance in themselves, for they do not indicate the presence of a second universal force, but are only names given to the one Light unperceived.