I didn't’t start the day intending to write a long letter that I didn’t send. But the presumption early on that I’d send a short email flowered into—what the hell—a long email that would surely be sent soon (actual intent to send draws it all on). I was indeed enjoying myself. Paragraphs became pages.
But it wasn’t sent; and won’t be. Yet, I got great material from
the endeavor!—as if the agency of one’s dreaming prevails
on the day’s freedom.
I can stand back from the result and recognize a character compelled
to create significances in a landscape (basically implying the importance of the character to the landscape?)—the integrity of giving importance, the doing of that.
So, I get a study in the potential of a character to opt for meaningfulness over others’ pretenses of meaninglessness, at least exercising our character’s professed ease of finding meaning everywhere.
A tiny part of what he said:
All of life’s a kind of theater—tragi-comic at best, maybe ultimately ironic.... It’s not that life should be otherwise, such that we lament that we created the gods in the first place that would betray us. It’s great that we make the meaning that we sustain. That’s the essential message of the dramaturgical sense of life, and it’s wonderful. It’s the answer to the tragedy of so much life: that a new season is made. Out of tragedy (autumn, the fall) comes irony (winter), then comedy—and then romance! That was the Shakespearean cycle.