We cycle up the coast towards Holme, chain our bikes to a tree and walk on a sandy path through the wood. S. stops here and there to open her wildlife book and identify some plant or insect. We chat without paying attention to our surroundings, emerge from the wood, and suddenly we find ourselves before a wide-open view: on one side the sea and sky a vast sheet of whites and blues, on the other scrapes and grassy dunes stretching inland.
It’s moments like that I want to write about. Not a story from beginning to end but a story of continual returns to the open instant.
Like those moment when you stop and see things with new eyes, as when you work on a problem until it seems insoluble and the answer comes to you all of a sudden: it was obvious all along, why couldn’t I see it.
Or those thoughts that lie in wait to show you how you’ve been shielding yourself from them, as in a psychoanalytic breakthrough: so that’s why I’ve always acted like that, why didn’t I see it.
Or, in novels, those passages in which moments of clarity cut through the plot and free up the story. I daydream of a book containing only such passages, something like Stephen Hero’s book of epiphanies, or a collection of Woolf’s ‘little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark’.
Everyone carries a room about inside him. This fact can even be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast and one pricks up one's ears and listens, say in the night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall.
Notes for a fragmentary novel entitled The Moment, linked at the top of the page.
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