Figuring it out

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.