Extinction freed up something inside me. For my whole life, I’ve failed at connecting my writing with my deepest feelings. Reading work from the previous day or a week or month later inevitably depresses me; as though it comes from my throat rather than deep in my belly. My pages were flat; I’m never anywhere to be found. You always read about how the greats open a vein and bleed out, but I’ve never understood that; not at an emotional level where I could see without fail what it meant for an author to pour everything into their work. In this book, not only did I see the emotional aspect, but I saw the mechanics of it as well.
It’s late in the day, but I’m grateful Thomas Bernhard appeared in my life. Perhaps it’s a sign that I’m finally ready to learn. We shall see.