Moab v1

I've been reading Stephen Fry's autobiography and it has had rather a profound effect on me, both in content and in sheer execution. He writes of his obsession with the written word, with swilling around phrases and syntax in one's mind and then allowing it to express itself by opening your mouth or twitching your fingers and letting it pour forth. I don't think I can ape him - after all, he's had years of experience and has quite a gift, but I've been inspired to make some sort of attempt regardless. As he puts it, quoting some long-dead author I've never heard of or some musty tome that made the rounds in the 70s:

"Language is the parent, not the child, of thought."


I'm paraphrasing, I can't remember the exact line. But it was something like that, and in most things Mr. Fry has to impart, it is exceedingly beautiful. Most of what he has to say is caught up with the subject of love and masturbation and that moment in one's youth when you finally figure out what all the fuss is about - all the Shakespearean verse, the trashy poetry and the poignant film that you've watched finally hits home. Where beauty is revealed to you in all things - the mundane, the everyday. Sunsets. Grass. The scent of old books, the sound of old records. The heat from a footpath. The mist in the morning air. Beauty becomes apparent in things that were once merely 'pleasurable' or 'pretty'. It's a bolt from the blue.

I wish I could devote more time to this. In fact, I probably will. Right now it is nearly 1am and I'm not expressing myself properly. Perhaps I'll do this post in multiple parts. Yes, let's do that. I've made a start, after all. One mustn't expect pure eloquence at this hour consistently. I have so very much to say.