I think that every writer should have a question they can ask that there is no end to the pursuit of. Every writer should have questions big enough and pressing enough and multi-faceted enough and unanswerable enough that they occupy their entire life, however long or short it is
I’m hesitant to cite Ernest Hemingway (because, Hemingway), but in A Moveable Feast he wrote about knowing when to stop writing each day so that his subconscious could take over, and he would refill, like a well. For me, refilling often means biking around Central Park.
“The best moments in reading are when you come across something—a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things—that you’d thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you’ve never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it’s as if a hand has come out and taken yours.”
Koreans have elected emperors for more than 50 years and now they think they can point guns at people who don’t listen to them.
Our reverence for independence takes no account of the reality of what happens in life: sooner or later, independence will become impossible. Serious illness or infirmity will strike. It is as inevitable as sunset. And then a new question arises: If independence is what we live for, what do we do when it can no longer be sustained?