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On Past Worlds
Often, I find that what I thought was ancient actually only dates back a few hundred years, or even only a few decades. What isn't written down tends to transform, decay, and be reborn at the same rhythm as human life.
Reading too many old books makes me feel like the real world is already gone, and that we instead live in some toy imitation of reality. All the technology we have and all the progress in our arts are merely for making cheap derivations of what it felt like to be human, back when we actually were human.
I know this is a silly thing to feel. Flaubert wrote a novel about this in 1869. Someday all these people around that I think are idiots are going to be declared the greatest artists of my generation. How will I come to terms with that?
Essays:Contact me at saddleblasters [at] gmail [etc]
