{ Saturday, May 28, 2005 }
I am reading "Repetition" by Peter Handke
And now, outside the station, I discovered that since my arrival in Jesenice I had been silently telling my girlfriend about my day. And what was I telling her? Neither incidents nor events, but mere impressions, a sight, a sound, a smell. The jet of the little fountain across the street, the red of the newspaper kiosk, the exhaust fumes of the heavy trucks -- once I told her about them, they ceased to exist in themselves and merged with one another. And the teller was not I, it was the experience itself. This silent telling deep inside me was something greater than myself.
I'm not very far into the book, but one of the themes seems to be the experience of the world, and the failure of attempts to tell it, to name it.
LINK | 10:36 AM | TB