I’ve been thinking about fragments lately and writing a lot of them, maybe because I have little time or feel like I am very busy. The fragments I write down from what I’m reading also mostly have to do with fragments. Here are a few:
“But the part is sick
of representing the whole.”
But the whole is stupid. I never meant any of it. It was a relief to take off my soccer pads in a lit car. I was alone.
I am writing this on the train to Milan. We flash past towers and factories, stations, yards, then a field where a herd of black horses is just turning to race uphill. “Attempts at description are stupid,” George Eliot says, yet one may encounter a fragment of unexhausted time. Who can name its transactions, the sense that fell through us of untouchable wind, unknown effort–one black mane?