Lately I’ve been focusing on making my life a work of art, which is obviously a big concept to wrap one’s mind and life around. But I like a good challenge. Then serendipitously, I found this quote from Virginia Woolf’s unfinished memoir ‘A Sketch of the Past’, begun in 1939.
Perhaps this is the strongest pleasure known to me. It is the rapture I get when in writing I seem to be discovering what belongs to what; making a scene come right; making a character come together. From this I reach what I might call a philosophy; at any rate it is a constant idea of mine; that behind the cotton wool [of daily life] is hidden a pattern; that we–I mean all human beings–are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mess that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven . . . we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.
Does any of it resonate with you? Do you think that it’s possible that we could all be parts of a work of art? I’d love to hear from you.