Summer in the south-east, slowly moving through a Sunday morning where I woke too early, where I was woken by cats. Travelling to London today, and then on to Newcastle, returning home.
The forming of ambition is a strange event. Ambition - that sense that wells up within and demands achievement. Sitting on the train yesterday in ridiculous weather – scorching sun interrupted by hailstones – I thought of all those books that I struggled to finish, all those books I wanted to finish but couldn’t. Sebald, Bernhard, Berger, Kis – these novels of indirection, of mistelling, of ruptured pride, each with their stillborn vignettes offering moments within moments… what is it in these books that makes me want to write? I put each one of them upon the wooden table before their end and begin to write.
The vogues of poetry are all too obviously imitated, but there is a hushed transfer that takes place in the pages of these novels that I fear to be matchless. Presently, I refuse the pen. Seen from the outside, this is nothing but an effort towards writing.