feeling bored tonight and slightly hypomanic; i may have several comments to make. probably rambling.
i’ve discovered i much prefer edith wharton to henry james. to me there’s something distant about the latter and something close and real about the former. and the closer and realer something is, the more beautiful. sad stories all the more.
to feel close and real forever. to feel filled with emotion always.
the description of the heroine in wharton’s ‘summer’, which i’m currently reading, says 'to all that was light and air, perfume and colour, every drop of blood in her responded.’ i feel this way so often. the senses heightened, so alive and awake to the world.
bursting with feeling with nowhere to go but to become words on a page.