My sentences grew shorter and shorter, and more and more empty, till they looked a bit like that room where I’d slept in the temple. My pages became so quiet you had to lean in to hear them, and, as with any good Japanese, completely unstriking, and neutral on the surface. I grew less and less interested in explanations, because the mere moment seemed enough in itself; where I’d written 40 pages after my first two weeks here, and then 338 pages after a year, now I found I could barely write a postcard about Japan, if you’d asked me. Image had taken the place of idea.
Perhaps the greatest beauty of the writing life is that it offers you concrete evidence of all your changes; the pages you write are like those charts nurses place at the end of your bed to map your progress. Whatever you need to know about yourself is there, if only you know how to read it. And as time went on, I started to realize something most unexpected: I was turning Japanese.
Per chi non ha mai letto nulla di Iyer, consiglio di iniziare con Video Night in Kathmandu.
Postato da: IM