One thing that’s come up for me in the last week is this idea of knowing nothing, and figuring it out. there is this paragraph in the new knaussgard book i can’t stop thinking about:
Red and green.
They mean nothing to you, but to me those two colours contain so much, something within them exerts a powerful pull, and i think this is one of the reasons why I have become a writer, for a feel that pull so strongly, and i know that it’s important, but i lack the words to express it, and therefore I don’t know what it is. I have tried, and i have capitulated. My capitulation is the books i have published.
Something about the not knowing. In the blue book story, i have always struggled with not knowing why the frenchman went psycho, what changed, what changed in me, what was going on during that whole period. and i have thought i needed to know, to write the book. but that is why i write, to try to understand. same with the accident. why did it i happen? did i do it? how did i survive? and this question the other day from that interesting artist woman georgie: did the lift actually stop? there is a whole book in just trying to figure that out. there is a whole book in blue trying to figure out what happened to mum, and why my path took the shape it did. i don’t know what white is trying to figure out but that’s ok.