“Life,” wrote a friend of mine, “is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.”
Was reading this book at L’étoile Café, and thought how apt it was, reading it in a cafe with somewhat a view. The novel was set in the early 20th century, wrestling between the repressed worldviews of Edwardian England and the pursuits of freedom and true love.
Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song.
No matter which era we belong to, it’s difficult to destroy the walls of class distinction. Even in modern world today, we’re consistently benchmarked, knowingly or not, by how much we earn, who we mix with and what we’ve accomplished.
If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true.
Thus it is proving to be a lifelong power struggle, against the forces of expectations and pretense. To live simply, wear comfortably, and enjoy life within my capabilities, however limited. To not be reduced to yet another race rat, a chasing after the wind.
We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm — yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.