Thursday, July 26, 2012
These blogs are shoehorned into travel. I am now in England after days in Cahors, Chartres and Calais. Whether they are stylish and durable footwear is another thing.
I tweeted the title of this piece this morning @profjacksanger because I was taken by the notion that whatever I have executed as a writer, whether in the guise of an academic, a novelist, a playwright or a poet, required, even at the most stringent point in my portrayal of realities, imaginative dressing. No matter how diligent I was at stripping words of any spurious, arty-farty subjectivity, the results were never more than a nod in the direction of verisimilitude. As I said in a recent blog, we are what we write. We are never utterly disinterested and objectively scientific. Life since Plato’s illuminations, has been seen to be illusion and writing does little to pull back the curtain that veils the truth of the nature of existence. Thus it is a relief to have left academia and its false gods and self-deceptions for the rich, imaginative world of ‘fiction’ which, to my mind, luxuriates in its lack of pretence that it is actually nailing reality.
In that unalloyed modesty, it may say as much about our universe as any so-called factual account within the scientific establishment.