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 the Virginia Woolf memoir ‘A Sketch of the Past’, begun in 1939 and left unfinished. Darn.
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.
P.S. I’m an ex-shrink who writes award-winning novels. Check out my books here.