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Thinking turns around and aims at itself, like a weapon that takes on a life of its own, a bow that shoots the archer. In an age of proliferating ‘isms’ — an age of punditry, commentary, opinion — there is an almost-tragic fear of the self-referential power of Thought: every commentator lives in perpetual fear of the ironic possibilities of their own comments, on the own, recursive, self-reference of language. Everyone is a hypocrite in a denial.
The heart does not hear itself own music.
Today is Bloomsday: a kind of international holiday of readers, a celebration of language, imagination, art. The day of Saint James Joyce: patron of the modern creative imagination.
The greatest threat to the human spirit is the normalization of anxiety, so that all feelings of leisure, repose, reflection, peace are forgotten. I’ve felt lucky, recently, to have carved out a few such moments for myself — if only so that I could be reminded that they’re possible.
