Morningthots

Writing is evidence of loneliness. Why would a man write a multi-volume work of classic literature unless he is lonely? When you feel no need for companionship, you write nothing; you sit content in silence, like a tree. Trees don’t write to anyone; they simply stay put. Just to exist is enough. Sometimes trees produce fruit.

On second thought, why would I say that a tree is content with its lot? Maybe all trees are in agony. And isn’t fruit production like writing, in a sense? Perhaps it would be more agonizing for trees to hold back their fruit than to . . .

The fruit of a tree could be taken and eaten by others. It could also fall to the ground and decay. Seeds from the fruit could sprout and start a whole new nightmare. 

I wonder if trees have a preference about what happens to their fruit. Imagine a tree thinking to itself: “My fruit nourishes devils.”

When you’re lost on a deserted island, you could compose messages, place them in bottles and then toss them into the ocean; but this would be the behavior of a lonely man. Instead, you read from your stack of favorite books that you brought with you – books that were written by lonely authors.

Solitude versus loneliness. Solitude sounds good: it sounds like something that one might strive for and achieve; whereas loneliness sounds like something to be avoided because it’s a type of lack that one suffers – the lack of companionship and interaction.

It’s better to have than to need. Isn’t that obvious? Lacking is bad. But there are different styles of richness and poverty. I think of physical and mental. Who would not rather be mentally rich and physically poor than physically rich and mentally poor? But the multitudes reply, shouting: “If this ‘either/or toggle-switch’ scenario can be sidestepped, we all would prefer to be both physically AS WELL AS mentally rich.” Have the multitudes not answered well? Let us therefore make them abundantly wealthy and wise.

I think it’s interesting how the three best writers in my country all had very bad relationships with the world of publishing. Walt Whitman published the first edition of his Leaves of Grass by himself, without the support of a professional publisher, and all the respectable people frowned upon him for doing so. Emily Dickinson forwent publishing altogether, choosing rather to die unpublished. And the negativity was so strong against Herman Melville, after the publication of his best book Moby-Dick, that he never recovered from it – his last volumes of poetry were self-published in small quantities at great personal expense.

So I say: If you’re a United Statesian who desires to contribute to the art of writing, you should expect to remain lonely and unpublished. The country is set up with a bias against your pursuit.

And what makes an artwork successful? I hold a work of art in the highest esteem when it lures the wisest minds to obsess over it.

But what about people who make fresco paintings? Do you have a studio where you work? Do you display your finished pictures for potential buyers? Where do you show them? How much does each piece cost? Have you sold much? How would an average person find out about you? Is there a magazine that I could acquire which has photographs of your paintings inside it, or must I seek you out and visit you physically if I want to view your work? What if I don’t have the time or money to make the trip – am I thereby barred from admiring your genius? Do respectable critics of art exist who have written about you? If so, what did they say? Can I trust them? Are they decent people? Maybe we should all get together and have a party.

Now I think to myself: “Is all art truly useless?” And the answer is “Yes,” of course. But then I think of food and clothing, and the people who make these things: The act of making is artistry; and food and clothing are necessities; so the makers of food and clothing are useful artists. Also shelter is obviously useful, and architecture and carpentry are arts. So it seems that art can either have or lack use. Only the best art is useless.

But not every man needs the Mona Lisa on his wall. Most men will settle for a picture of their own mother. (Are paintings even considered a necessity by Science?) I myself, however, do indeed need the Mona Lisa; I also need fine raiment and high cuisine. To deprive me of these things would be to impoverish me: this is a spiritual crime – if there is a God, he will punish all evildoers.

P.S.

I’ve been watching a lot of movies lately. I still can’t figure out what movies are. Are they really just the shadows in Plato’s cave? Well, then, what if we were to break free from our shackles and escape outside of the cave – what would we see then: A stage drama performed by live actors?

But even if a live performance is preferable to a filmstrip, isn’t there some advantage to having a frozen piece of Hollywood to share? At least, then, we’re all perceiving the same matter, which makes it easier to talk about.

The problem is that one man views the film on a large screen in the dark with an attentive audience, while another man views the film on his portable phone in broad daylight on a noisy bus.

Yet, why call this a problem? Do I really wish that everyone would undergo exactly the same experience? – I guess I do, when it comes to theater, because, like I said, this makes it easier to talk about. But couldn’t I learn to enjoy a discussion that is fueled by varied reactions to dissimilar screenings? – Yes, I could. So, in the future, I’ll try to do that.