[b]Jeanette Winterson
Time is a player. Time is part of today, not simply a measure of its passing.[/b]
Or, perhaps, in a determined world, the only player.
In other words, whatever that means.
How is it that one day life is orderly and you are content, a little cynical perhaps but on the whole just so, and then without warning you find the solid floor is a trapdoor and you are now in another place whose geography is uncertain and whose customs are strange?
How is it that way indeed.
Everyone thinks their own situation most tragic. I am no exception.
Mine is tragic, sure, but no way in hell would I [could I] ever imagine it the most tragic.
Can I speak my mind or am I dumb inside a borrowed language, captive of bastard thoughts? What of me is mine?
You actually know, don’t you?
What art does is coax us away from the mechanical and towards the miraculous.
Or, rather, that’s what we tell ourselves it does. Though, sure, it might.
Their throats were bare for God.
That can’t be good.
Even now when I’m furious, what I would like to do is to punch the infuriating person flat on the ground. That solves nothing I know, and I spent a lot of time understanding my own violence, which is not of the pussycat kind. There are people who could never commit murder; I am not one of those people. It’s better to know it, better to know who you are, and what lies in you, and what you could do, might do, under extreme provocation.
That makes [at least] two of us.