For what is the world in which live, without all this discourse? A whole lotta something. I've just given myself the gift of music and it is good. A salve for my wounds, it mysteriously sutures my heart without me understanding why. And that is precisely the seat of its power. Between me and music, between music and I—it matters really not, and therein lies the point—there is something special. It's not that music transcends language, as I don't think it right to say that music communicates. No, it's that music manages to be evocative without entering into that subject/object relationship that so defines discourse. Listening to music I know (there's always an exception), it feels as though it were a part of me. At least that would be an easy way of putting it. To be more precise, I think we listen to music to transform—whether that be to diminish, accentuate, or alter—our sense of self. Not in any permanent way, simply for the duration of our listening experience.
In more mundane news, I've partly unpacked and cleaned my room, and as you may have guessed, I've finally hooked up my stereo. Classes are going well. Shakespeare and Pascal (and even Descartes, for whom I've grown rather found) are incredibly interesting. I have a thesis topic and an advisor and I am very excited about both. My topic is "Description and Subjectivity in Proust", or some such exploration of Proust and subjectivity. I am as excited to have picked Proust as I am to have relinquished the chains of the French New Novel. That might have been a disaster as I'm not sure I could really have put up with much more of their discombobulated prose.
I hope all is well in your worlds far and near. I expect these lines are the begining of a more frequent presence here.
Ev
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