The voice of the intellect is a soft one, but it does not rest until it has gained a hearing.
—Sigmund Freud, The Future of an Illusion
This goes for both the intellect and the intellectual; a quiet reminder that in this current era of anti-intellectualism, there have always been times when the din of the crowd drowned out the soft voice of the rational.
This idea also applies to writing. One writes because one has something to say, something that won’t go away until that soft voice inside one’s soul has had its words. The difference between a memoirist and a novelist is who that voice is speaking to so relentlessly. In a memoir, it speaks to itself; in a novel, it speaks to others.
Last week: Nietzsche gets lyrical.
Next week: Sylvia Plath on stilts.
See the index for what’s been posted and what’s to come.
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