for some reason, this weather makes me feel like i should be reading kierkegaard in a coffee shop. (and doesn’t that sound like the most perfect title for a novel?)
that’s just what i was doing in this photo, which i took four years ago this week. i am flooded with pensive nostalgia looking at this picture again, remembering what was tumbling around in my head as i alternated between staring out that window and scribbling pencil notes in the margins of my copy of fear and trembling. those privately scribbled pencil notes said everything i was thinking, and yet were lacking at the same time; and it was this lacking that kept me reading, kept me underlining, kept me scribbling, kept me yearning.
great Shakespeare!, you who can say everything, everything, everything exactly as it is – and yet why was this torment one you never gave voice to? was it perhaps that you kept it to yourself, like the beloved whose name one still cannot bear the world to mention? for a poet buys this power of words to utter all the grim secrets of others at the cost of a little secret he himself cannot utter. –søren kierkegaard
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