Thursday, November 1

I start to feel that, with time, it is harder and harder to examine your own life. There are more facets of memory with every passing year, as long as the organs of perception and recollection keep working, anyhow, and less and less do the remembered objects present themselves as conduits of meaning. The edges and complications wear away under constant handling. Where once a succession of happy accidents and dawning awarenesses may have led you to imagine an arc or a steady progression - the kind of structure in life that lends momentum to a novel or a movie - the texture and pattern of things now seems to defy narrative itself. Seems still to signify, but not the easy significance you’re looking for.