I can still see the sickly yellow of your bathroom
I'd go there to be alone—I think the architect knew
that it was a perfect place for storing my feelings
because yellow looks like the absence of you
He could break free. But the terror of free will was vertiginous. Hence, he would invoke the rules which were there before him, to shake off his shoulders the unbearable weight of the choice, so that later on he could forgive himself for what he had done to his own life.
So he did the sole thing he could bear doing. He returned home [...]
“She is alone. The salty sea is not alone because it’s salty and vast, and this is an achievement. Right then she knows herself even less than she knows the sea. Her courage comes from not knowing herself, but going ahead nevertheless. Not knowing yourself is inevitable, and not knowing yourself demands courage.”
— Clarice Lispector, from “The Waters of the World”, Complete Stories (trans. Katarina Dodson)
Susan Sontag, from As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980
Text ID: Feeling of discontinuity as a person. My various selves—woman, mother, teacher, lover, etc.—how do they all come together? And anxiety at moments of transition from one "role" to another. Will I make it fifteen minutes from now? Be able to step into, inhabit the person I'm supposed to be? This is felt as an infinitely hazardous leap, no matter how often it's successfully executed.