Sunday
19) Writing, Humanness, and Love
Perhaps, I am no more a writer than I am a human. I do not know what being either means. But even not all humans are writers. What does that make me? Not being human, I can not become human. I speak and write a human language, however primitively, but that can not make me more or less than what I am, whatever that is. Even my clothes are not human; my pants have a hole in them for my tail to come out of. My capacity for writing, I suppose, has grown from a necessity, a compensation, such as, I have heard, a blind man's acute hearing, which, nonetheless, makes him no less blind, as writing makes me no more human. But less monkey? How much monkey can I be but for this body? How much monkey do I want to be? To lessen this torment of what I think is love, I would be all monkey. To understand it, I would not be monkey at all. Hunter could be right, and I am not in love at all. After all, he is all human. But so is Neil, and he does not doubt my feelings. Neil writes, too. Does this mean writers do not know love?
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Go back to the other blog. This one is boring.
ReplyDeleteI do not know what to say to this.
ReplyDeleteAre you suggesting that King Kong's love for Ann was less than Kafka's for Felice because he wasn't human, or more because Kafka was a writer? Sorry, Book Monkey, but your logic is flawed in this case. And is the capacity for love really measurable? The evolution of the heart is not dictated by species, which might be surprising to you.
ReplyDeleteDid Ann love King Kong? Did Felice love Kafka? What good is a capacity for love if it is never filled? I know I can love, but can I be loved?
ReplyDeleteWell, first you need to stop referring to yourself in such demeaning terms as a "mean, puny, hairy body." The ladies might find your constant self-deprecation a turn-off.
ReplyDeleteI am only interested in one "lady", but you are probably right. I try to accept what I am, but I do not know what that is.
ReplyDelete