In a writer's case, they are also recorders of what manifestation of reality appears before them - spooling reel upon reel of fantasy, fiction and fact: wheeling page after page onto paper and electronic composition the reading-world has for its joy and woe. And from which we charge-in or stand-back, silently saying nothing. Silence itself investing rational animal civilization on which we measure ourselves itself as one species, with gravity.
Released to a literate mind via the eyes and aural ear: us placating in the charge of light, love, happiness and despair, their finely calibrated intelligences weighted and freighting forth into what's fought over and for; before being ultimately lost in a final breath. Forever spumes of Literature, serving whomsoever belongs in the gazing of such things, once and for all, for evermore - so we fantasize.
The exploratory telling deemed to inform, confuse, trick, whisk off to an island where nothing happens beyond the border of a skull - fulfilling what promise of the intellect and imagination, harnessed to Dickinson, Emerson, Fitzgerald, Greer, Hollingsworth, Imlah, Joyce, KKK, Lordan or Molière - names the name upon named entities in the act of live prayer. Evil backward mouthing a litany and list of authorial deities the addicted tick off in the activity of sayer-spotting.
Julian Barnes writes marvelously on his own obsessive hobby of perusing and owning all sorts of material objects and off-cuts from the lives of once living writers. A form of ghost-chase, habit and communing with spirits who inspire his own divination (divinare - to be inspired by a god), speaking for the ultimate author. Silence, prior to its forming into words.
The energy, implication and force before articulation shatters its one True meaning, silence understood by all of us has the silence of ultimate literacy, visually communicated. Pictures.
The pictures of writing-spaces. A modern IKEA lamp on smooth pearl gray panel, spotless, hi-tech, arranged beforehand to reflect a message, subtle, speaking a thousand words: This is Writer X - Invest.
I read an account by the English poet Desmond Swords going to a Yeats exhibition at the National Library of Ireland on Kildare Street, in the political district of the city, next door to the daily business of government - and on seeing Yeats' tattwas and other magical documents, carefully and methodically created and laid out by the author and the museum staff - had felt some Yeatsean force of immense silence pass through him and disable the mind, freezing it momentarily as though invaded by an alien form of far greater intelligence than our own.
Swords was mesmorised for several hours in the environment of this evocative Georgian building. Unlike the usual writer's objects he had witnessed and (ocassionaly) handled in person at the writers' houses he'd visited over the years - an acute sensation of being overcome by an alertness of some alien sapience whose intelligence rendered his own "but a speck on the mottled canvas of ink-veined brilliant night beneath the Aurora Borealis."
The experience, he said, could have been a milisecond or an eternity; but that wasn't the point. The point was, he'd connected to something which had come from without; from the mind of a dead writer whose magical and paranormal interests and research had led to Controllers becoming a prime source of mystical commune with those in the anima mundi who guided his intelligence and creativity to two poles in convergence, embodied in the initiation oath Yeats took on 3 March 1890, at 17 Fitzroy Street London.
Demon Est Deus Inversus, where good and evil neuter in an exapanse of nothingness. Becalmed silence and balancing cosmic fate of the universe Yeats mirrored in poetry of stone and sky, earth and sea - primary symbols of his fascination with Spirit Worlds in which he composed in the oppositional dead-centre of life's storm.
The pin-drop informational store of True knowledge for this esoteric Order he became Adeptus Exemptus (7=4) in during 1916, on reaching the eighth grade of the Golden Dawn's Inner Order.
We are bound by flowers, & our feet are entangled in the green
and there is deceit in the singing of birds
It is time to be done with it all
The stars call & all the planets
and the purging fire of the moon
and yonder in the cold silence of cleansing night
may the dawn break & gates of day be set wide open"