To look for the writer who never was quite the person you imagine or imagined him to be. To struggle against oneself, against one's own position and perceptions. The first man, born under blinding light that was a metaphor not for place, because place itself was just where one's love happened to be. One likes a book, a particular work of art, a piece of music, but what is it to be fascinated by the "author"?
The last man, the late style, trying to recover form, to make amends for one's mistakes, for your political naivete. To retract, retrace, retreat, revise, re-imagine those first steps...
The end of the lyrical stage in one's life, the sad fact that when you look back you see a slightly different face to the one that captivated you at the outset...
This deep commitment to the core of what you are, to the people that helped give shape to your life. Over and above justice, truth?
~~~
You just remembered that in a wise move some years back you actually did purchase a copy of Walser's Benjamenta, on the off chance that you'd be interested in it one day.
Shades of Augustine:
Already I have become a mystery to myself.
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