from a recent issue of the Progressive Eduardo Galeano's, "Why I Write" begins,
"Why I Write" begins,
A confession to begin: Since I was a baby, I tried to be a soccer player. I still am number one. The best of the best, but only during dreamtime, while I sleep, and as soon as I wake up, I confirm that I have wooden legs, and I have no other chance than to try to be a writer.
The rest of this short piece will interest anyone who relishes reading.
Reminds me of the quote from a blog a few days earlier quoting Rebecca Solnit in case you didn't see it.
Writing is saying to no one and to everyone the things it is not possible to say to someone. Or rather writing is saying to the no one who may eventually be the reader those things one has no someone to whom to say them. Matters that are so subtle, so personal, so obscure, that I ordinarily can’t imagine saying them to the people to whom I’m closest. Even once in a while I try to say them aloud and find that what turns out to be mush in my mouth or falls short of their ears can be written down for total strangers. Said to total strangers in the silence of writing that is recuperated and heard in the solitude of reading. Is it the shared solitude of writing, is it that separately we all reside in a place deeper than society, even the society of two? Is it that the tongue fails where the fingers succeed, in telling truths so lengthy and nuanced that they are almost impossible aloud?