I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. (Virginia Woolf) We become ourselves through others, and the self is a porous thing, not a sealed container (Siri Hustvedt) En vez de mirarme en mi espejo quiero que mi espejo se mire en mí (Alejandra Pizarnik)
Such a cultivated mind doesn’t really attract me. I admire it, I appreciate all “less soins et les peines” that have gone to produce it -but I leaves me cold. After all, the adventure is over. There is now nothing to do but to trim and to lop and to keep back -all faintly depressing labours. No, no the mind I love must still have wild places, a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two (real snakes), a pool that nobody’s fathomed the depth of- and paths threaded with those little flowers planted by the mind. It must also have a real hiding places, not artifical ones -not gazebos and mazes. And I have never yet met the cultivated mind that has not had its shrubbery. I loathe and detest shrubberies.
Journal of Katherine Mansfield. Persephone Books.