‘consciousness seems to me increasingly inconceivable. i know more and more that i know nothing of its nature, range, and force except what i experience through the slot of this physical body. the tie to my body may feel stronger than it is. so it seems anyway when i remember how i occasionally hold myself separate from it. yet i balk.
... here, where my pencil touches the paper, is the place at which a body holds itself intact. the line marks, with infinite tenderness, the experience of a body—a separate unknowable experience inside the line, space outside it.’
— anne truitt, daybook. the journal of an artist
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