“It was strange to have no self — to be like a little boy left along in a big house, who knew that now he could do anything he wanted to do, but found that there was nothing that he wanted to do —” via Esquire
I sure know that feeling.
I don’t subscribe to anything else Fitzgerald posits in relation… I’ve never had the font of vitality as he describes having and only found anything like such passion in fits and starts, interstices when my manifold interests managed to calm, settling on long enough and strongly enough on one subject to accomplish a specific creation. On good days, which is admittedly more than half of them, I am that same boy but converse, wanting to do EVERYTHING…
I’d say of myself that I have a certain but scattered positivity and a jack-of-all sort of energy, only often without focus.
Now, finally, I can say this without rancor… there is much to appreciate in the diffuse sparkle of a prism or the soft palate of sunrise through fog. But we are wired to appreciate the laser; it’s that tightly compacted light and heat that can’t be ignored, that does the work and produces one’s art.
Anyway, it’s a little off the topic — the piece is well worth reading though unsympathetic in the extreme — but it resonated a bit.