hyenabutter: Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest. A couple of days ago, I read Andrew Turnbull’s biography of Thomas Wolfe. It was a fairly uninteresting read, mainly because Wolfe’s life was not terribly interesting: he grew up, and wrote a book about growing up, got famous, and then wrote a couple of million words about that. Other than a handful of trips abroad, basically all the guy ever did was write. The book is also disappointing in light of the fact that Wolfe just comes across as a self-important prick—something that’s not that shocking when you consider that he wrote four massive books that feature a thinly-disguised Thomas Wolfe as their main character. In addition to being an egomaniac, Wolfe had a pretty broad antisemitic streak (something that’s not particularly glossed-over even in his fiction, which made me really uncomfortable when I read his books as a teenager), a condescending kind of kindly racism, and he seemingly found himself irresistible to women, most of whom he treated like shit, including the one woman he ever had any kind of meaningful relationship with. There are so many faults with this guy that it’s almost pointless to mention that his big stupid books are still shot through with greatness—a greatness that you’re likely to miss if you didn’t read his work by the time you were seventeen or so. They are filled with a tremendous aching desire to make a mark on the world, a desire that is hugely appealing to a young person who’s similarly determined to sound their barbaric yawp into the void, to do or say something that they will be remembered by. Sure, it’s a noble desire, but one that, the older I get, seems almost childishly arrogant. Every human soul is worthy of regard, but if we’re all sounding that aforementioned yawp into that aforementioned void, then sooner or later it’s going to get filled up, and when a void is filled, it’s no longer a void, and with no void, we’ve got nothing to remind us that our lives are short, and we are soon-forgotten, and so we’ll fail to fill them with the worth we should. I’m beginning to think that being forgotten is the kindest favor the universe can bestow us, the closest to true forgiveness we ever earn. It’s the one thing I think I’m counting on. For reiterative purposes, this is one of the more perfect sentences I’ve ever read: Every human soul is worthy of regard, but if we’re all sounding that aforementioned yawp into that aforementioned void, then sooner or later it’s going to get filled up, and when a void is filled, it’s no longer a void, and with no void, we’ve got nothing to remind us that our lives are short, and we are soon-forgotten, and so we’ll fail to fill them with the worth we should.

hyenabutter:

Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.

A couple of days ago, I read Andrew Turnbull’s biography of Thomas Wolfe. It was a fairly uninteresting read, mainly because Wolfe’s life was not terribly interesting: he grew up, and wrote a book about growing up, got famous, and then wrote a couple of million words about that. Other than a handful of trips abroad, basically all the guy ever did was write.

The book is also disappointing in light of the fact that Wolfe just comes across as a self-important prick—something that’s not that shocking when you consider that he wrote four massive books that feature a thinly-disguised Thomas Wolfe as their main character. In addition to being an egomaniac, Wolfe had a pretty broad antisemitic streak (something that’s not particularly glossed-over even in his fiction, which made me really uncomfortable when I read his books as a teenager), a condescending kind of kindly racism, and he seemingly found himself irresistible to women, most of whom he treated like shit, including the one woman he ever had any kind of meaningful relationship with.

There are so many faults with this guy that it’s almost pointless to mention that his big stupid books are still shot through with greatness—a greatness that you’re likely to miss if you didn’t read his work by the time you were seventeen or so. They are filled with a tremendous aching desire to make a mark on the world, a desire that is hugely appealing to a young person who’s similarly determined to sound their barbaric yawp into the void, to do or say something that they will be remembered by.

Sure, it’s a noble desire, but one that, the older I get, seems almost childishly arrogant. Every human soul is worthy of regard, but if we’re all sounding that aforementioned yawp into that aforementioned void, then sooner or later it’s going to get filled up, and when a void is filled, it’s no longer a void, and with no void, we’ve got nothing to remind us that our lives are short, and we are soon-forgotten, and so we’ll fail to fill them with the worth we should.

I’m beginning to think that being forgotten is the kindest favor the universe can bestow us, the closest to true forgiveness we ever earn. It’s the one thing I think I’m counting on.

For reiterative purposes, this is one of the more perfect sentences I’ve ever read:

Every human soul is worthy of regard, but if we’re all sounding that aforementioned yawp into that aforementioned void, then sooner or later it’s going to get filled up, and when a void is filled, it’s no longer a void, and with no void, we’ve got nothing to remind us that our lives are short, and we are soon-forgotten, and so we’ll fail to fill them with the worth we should.

Source: hyenabutter