My sense of estrangement is becoming more and more dreadful. How wretched this life of ours is!-so full of false conceits, so futile, that it is little more than the shadow of the chimeras loosed by memory. How often this has caused me to feel that my memories, and the labours expended in writing them down are all part of the same humiliating and, at bottom, contemptible business! And yet, what would we be without memory? We would not be capable of ordering even the simplest thoughts, the most sensitive heart would lose the ability to show affection, our existence would be a mere neverending chain of meaningless moments, and there would not be the faintest trace of a past. Memories lie slumbering within us for months and years, quietly proliferating, until they are woken by some trifle and in some strange way blind us to life. Sebald, now with a gorgeous new cover by the famed designer Peter Mendelsund The Rings of Saturnwith its curious archive of photographsrecords a walking tour of the eastern coast of England. If they remained locked away, they would become heavier and heavier as time went on, so that in the end I would succumb under their mounting weight. “But the fact is that writing is the only way in which I am able to cope with the memories which overwhelm me so frequently and so unexpectedly.
0 kommentar(er)
