Thoughts on art... and being come upon unawares.

I don't know that I actually like any of Tennessee William's plays, but golly gee if he isn't an incredible writer... I've only seen the Glass Menagerie once in my life but this last monologue of Tom's somehow manages to stick in my head and float to the surface from time to time for no apparent reason. To steal William's own line-- this monologue has a tendency to come "upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise."

I didn't go to the moon, I went much further - for time is the longest distance between places. Not long after that I was fired for writing a poem on the lid of a shoebox.
I left Saint Louis. I descended the step of this fire-escape for a last time and followed, from then on, in my father's footsteps, attempting to find in motion what was lost in space - I travelled around a great deal. The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly coloured but torn away from the branches.
I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something.
It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass. Perhaps I am walking along a street at night, in some strange city, before I have found companions. I pass the lighted window of a shop where perfume is sold. The window is filled with pieces of coloured glass, tiny transparent bottles in delicate colours, like bits of a shattered rainbow.
Then all at once my sister touches my shoulder. I turn around and look into her eyes ...
Oh, Laura, Laura, I tried to leave you behind me, but I am more faithful than I intended to be !
I reach for a cigarette, I cross the street, I run into the movies or a bar, I buy a drink, I speak to the nearest stranger -anything that can blow your candles out !

[LAURA bends over the candles.]

- for nowadays the world is lit by lightning ! Blow out your candles, Laura - and so good-bye.

I'd like to start more sentences with for.... though I think it would probably sound rather pretentious when not in the context of a play. For the real world is not made up of the supposings and dreamings that the imagination creates.

Yep. Pretentious.

Hello wistful. I've not seen you for at least a few hours. Welcome home.

At least it's not it's cousin, melancholy. That would really be a bummer.

It's interesting, isn't it? That we can recognize art and appreciate the beauty of something and know that it is good, all while still maintaining this distaste for it... Humans are strange creatures full of odd juxtapositions, aren't we?

And why do we disparage art that is created out of a desire for money... I mean is it less an expression of creativity if we work within parameters? Is it less of a creation if we do it to please someone else? I would say no-- the desperation for money is as great a muse as any other, I think.

And why are these the things I ponder at 4:30 in the morning?

Blow out your candles, Renée - and so good-bye.