So it is for me that the pen often slumps insipidly in times of joy, while always rising up in a delighted prance in times of melancholy. It is as though despair has a way of coaxing words from the heart, which pleasure simply has not the time for.
I do not know whether to call this strange tendency a gift or a misfortune; for I do truly derive good pleasure in writing whilst nestled, high up and alone, in sorrow’s eyrie. Yet all at the same time, it would appear as if I were really saying: may new sufferings fall upon me, but my lips remain ever lyrical – that is, so that I may continue to coat my frightening anguish in poetic glamour. Anguish, in its raw form, will only depress even further.
Wallowing in self-pity thus becomes quite an addiction. It lifts you to above your daily panorama, and lets you see from up high all the warps and wefts of the web you stand unaware in. And it is only from that abstract place can one paint a clear picture of all that is life.