Writer's Blog (megancrewe) wrote,
Writer's Blog
megancrewe

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The act of metaphor

...the set of all the men who had slept on it, whatever their lives had been, would truly cease to be, forever, when the mattress burned. She stared at it in wonder. It was as if she had just discovered the irreversible process. It astonished her to think that so much could be lost, even the quantity of hallucination belonging just to the sailor that the world would bear no further trace of. She knew, because she had held him, that he suffered DT's. Behind the initials was a metaphor, a delirium tremens, a trembling unfurrowing of the mind's plowshare. The saint whose water can light lamps, the clairvoyant whose lapse in recall is the breath of God, the true paranoid for whom all is organized in spheres joyful or threatening about the central pulse of himself, the dreamer whose puns probe ancient fetid shafts and tunnels of truth all act in the same special relevance to the word, or whatever it is the word is there, buffering, to protect us from. ...She knew that the sailor had seen worlds no other man had seen if only because there was that high magic to low puns, because DT's must give access to dt's of spectra beyond the known sun, music made purely of Antarctic loneliness and fright. But nothing she know of would preserve them, or him.

from p. 95, The Crying of Lot 49, by Thomas Pynchon


I can't say I've quite untangled exactly what he's saying, but it hits me every time I read it. No matter how many times or how well we try to express the worlds that flower in our heads, the true sight and sound and taste of them can never be anything other than ours alone, and they will die with us.

Disquieting, isn't it?

mlc
Tags: what it's all about, writing
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