Plans are afoot, and a month has shifted. British Summertime began yesterday and ends in approximately one month. Today will be one of research for imminent travel.
Further thoughts on novels abound. Their peculiar, destructive appeal. The bind of the narrator. These closed circles. How is it that novels can say many things at the same time, can reach out to contradiction, and yet not be held to account?
Perhaps there is no obligation towards rationale, there is no necessity to resolve the discord in the novel? Novels that strike out towards a synthesis, towards a truth, never reach it and always fail.
In reading Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita it is clear that the purpose and potential of the devil is gloriously inconsistent. The devil and his retinue limit their limitless powers to anarchic pranks, this is controlled fantasy. The novel contains its own historicism, establishing a set of rules and values inapplicable to anything outside of itself, raising the question can nothing be understood independent of the context that the novel itself creates? If so, how does it communicate that context? Does it establish its own form of dialectic, posing as both proposition and antithesis?
Striving for that unique, questioned standpoint, I write into the day. Calendars are shortening as I relinquish my grasp on this damp, sunny room.