Monday, February 2, 2015
I thought I should read some Murdoch, so picked up The Sea, The Sea.(I'm a Lit Major, but a lazy one. For example, Re: War and Peace, I skipped the war bits, entirely.)
And like so many books, after a few pages, I tossed The Sea to the dungeon under the bed. Well, almost. Because in the tossing process, the book broke somewhere on the spine. Someone had pressed that spine so hard, it cracked open at page 85. Like a command.
I have no idea what this passage alludes to, or how it moves the plot along, how it features in the machinations of the story. But if I believed in god, this would be my prayer.
(And what cheek, what gumption, I must have to edit Iris Murdoch. But cheek I have, and edit I did. Still, all the words are hers.)
I have feared the possibility of an overwhelmingly powerful pain-source in my life, and I have nursed myself so as not to suffer too much ... What a queer gamble our existence is. We decide to do A instead of B and then the two roads diverge utterly ... Only later one sees how much the fates differ. Yet what were the reasons for the choice. They may have been forgotten. Did one know what one was choosing? Certainly not. There are such chasms of might-have-beens in any human life.