Sunday, January 13, 2008

finitude, the gardener

I’m looking at a humongous library of unread tomes (and the publishing world endlessly flowers new titles, of course—wonderful world), so I’m frustrated by the impossibility of absorbing all of it at once (or keeping up with all that draws me).

“The Inner Child and magical thinking echo in ambition,’ he confessed, as if one might absorb it all before writing further?

“No, I have to write. I have to go on with what I can do,’ said the poor little dramatist, as if existentialism isn't a tired idiom.

“But the road ahead is so huge that starting anywhere feels almost arbitrary.’

One “awaiting’ title, The Unfinished Project: Toward a Postmetaphysical Humanism, could be his address.

“Starting at all seems emblematic of pathetic finitude,’ expressing a life so lacking in free time for reading—because we make our choices.
“And I’ve made mine, conscientiously, yet fatefully.’

One lives for a well-being that’s worth the limited time one has
for making a life (or: one should).

“I have. But I wish I were better at getting more done, faster than I can.”

Who doesn't.