"Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal."
Diane Duane, So You Want to Be a Wizard
"From this vast topic of the interaction of music with language, I want to abstract only one theme: the notion that poetry leads toward music, that it passes into music when it attains the maximal intensity of its being. This idea has the evident, powerful implication that music is, in the final analysis, superior to language, that it says more or more immediately […]
But it is not the contest I want to draw attention to: it is the recurrent acknowledgment by poets, by masters of language, that music is the deeper, more numinous code, that language, when truly apprehended, aspires to the condition of music and is brought, by the genius of the poet, to the threshold of that condition. By a gradual loosening or transcendence of its own forms, the poem strives to escape from the linear, denotative, logically determined bonds of linguistic syntax into what the poet takes to be the simultaneities, immediacies, and free play of musical form. It is in music that that poet hopes to find the paradox resolved of an act of creation singular to the creator, bearing the shape of his own spirit, yet infinitely renewed in each listener.”
—George Steiner, from the essay “Silence and the Poet,” in Language and Silence: Essays on Language, Literature, and the Inhuman (Atheneum, 1967)
Karina Borowicz, from “Reading Anna Karenina,” in The Southern Review (Winter 2014)
Thus they went on living in a reality that was slipping away, momentarily captured by words, but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the values of the written letters. At the beginning of the road into the swamp they put up a sign that said MACONDO and another larger one on the main street that said GOD EXISTS. In all the houses keys to memorizing objects and feelings had been written. But the system demanded so much vigilance and moral strength that many succumbed to the spell of an imaginary reality, one invented by themselves, which was less practical for them but more comforting.
—Gabriel García Márquez, from One Hundred Years of Solitude (Harper Perennial, 1998)
I remember this.