One year ago, almost to the day, I started this blog. 134 posts later—most of them forgotten—I shut it down.
I haven't lost my affection for the soapbox; but this space belongs to a previous life. Anything I have to say right now will be—or will seem to be—about no one but myself. Soon enough, talking about oneself turns into nothing but self-pity, apology, resentment, or an exercise in self-delusion.
As a goodbye, I'll mark out the road I'm currently walking: Novalis, Cyril Connolly, Simone Weil, Bellow, James Baldwin. Dickinson, now and then, and Sebald and Montaigne.
It's a dark road, but not entirely without light. Yes, I'm more bewildered than ever. That will continue for some time, I guess. Long after this Eye is closed.