He suspected that he was beginning, ten years too late, to discover who he was; and the figure he saw was both more and less than he had once imagined it to be. He felt himself at last beginning to be a teacher, which was simply a man to whom his book is true, to whom is given a dignity of art that has little to do with his foolishness or weakness or inadequacy as a man. It was a knowledge of which he could not speak, but one which changed him, once he had it, so that no one could mistake its presence.

literature, photography

This vast life – the real,
interior one in which we remain linked to the dead (because the
dream inside us ignores trivialities like breath, or absence) – this
vast life is
not under our control. Everything we have seen and
everyone we have known goes into us and constitutes us, whether
we like it or not. We are linked together in a pattern we cannot
see and whose effects we cannot know. One slub here, a dropped
stitch there, a bump encounter in that place, and the whole fabric
will be different once it is woven.