I remain in awe of Cleve's capacity to destroy people with text - no wonder the writing in Grimoire is so excellent.
I realized at some point in my very early twenties that I evidently had some natural ability for writing, and spent a few years practicing by writing poems and short stories that today I'd light on fire for shame, but they were vital to take me through the struggle of discovering that state of mind a master writer will automatically lapse into (your Dostoevskys who towards the end simply dictated his prose to be written down for him, or for instance Pynchon, Joyce or Gaddis) and lesser writers catch glimpses of in various ways. It would feel almost like deja vu or deep meditative trance, where the words come forth without effort and a distinct sensation of having been a vessel is apparent. I wish I'd been less of a self-destructive mess back then, because eventually I became entirely unresponsive to the power of language and musicality of prose and basically gave it up. I could still recognize it of course, I just wasn't moved by it, and slowly but surely without practice my capabilities weakened. Under the persistent anesthetizing of my chemical diet even my views on art itself changed for the negative. I began to consider all art no matter how profound as ultimately of no value, even high art as indistinguishable from the banal ephemera the masses consume as entertainment because to me the goings on of the mundane terrestrial realm were of zero consequence relative to the spiritual. An effective delusion, for a while to be sure. I don't mean to imply that I blame drugs for my stupidity, this was a genuine phase of personal philosophy in development, but the deadening effect of opiates contributed to the desensitizing I was undergoing. Personality as a malleable fragmented construct that is subject to sudden definitions by social determinants is obviously altered by drug use, but the animating spirit I believe is only interfered with, not altered.
Anyway, today I find myself with a much broader perspective on art and cherish the efforts of the artists who share works of genius, being aware to some extent of the painstaking labor and self-sacrifice that is endured throughout the process. I'd always been an avid reader since as far back as my memory can reach but it was while reading the Histories of Herodotus for the first time that my entire worldview began to change, not just on art. Somewhere during the fourth book when describing the origins of the Scythians and the terra incognita of what lies beyond their territories (coincidentally related to Grimoire's setting, now that I think of it) it dawned on me, in a way I cannot describe because it was not a simple cognizance but rather a kind of a visionary awareness that I felt with my stomach as well as my mind, that I was reading the words (though translated and re-translated, scribed and re-scribed) of a man who was alive roughly 2,500 years ago. All of a sudden I felt this intense surge of energy as a flood of visions came before my interior eye through which I had intimations of connecting directly with this man, with his once living and breathing environment, and I was overwhelmed to the point of tears. It was one thing to know how old the book is, but another thing entirely to experience the age of the writing with acute conscious awareness on every level of my being. As a work of history it is of course a matter of infinite interest for various specialists, but as a work of art it is a testament to human genius when realized through a capable recipient. And the marvel that it has existed for millennia, cherished by one civilization after another up to the present moment is a true wonder.
After this I saw art and humanity from a much greater vantage point and understood intimately how precious the act of relaying feelings through art is. From the cave art of our ancient earliest ancestors to the absurd amount of means of conveyance we have access to now there is a longing there to fill a void we feel that defies explanation. When I look at the cave paintings from 14,000 years ago of animals some of them extinct, I see a desire to reach out for communion with a transcendent 'other' present in the lines and contours and colors. Whether they were shamanic in intent or the results of another early cultural practice doesn't matter because to me the essence of wanting to communicate is palpably present. Whomever made those paintings very likely had thoughts of whether or not they are alone, the dawning awareness in early man that there is a vast cosmos utterly beyond comprehension and that he is unable to answer for anyone but himself whether or not there is something else 'out there'. It is why we do anything that isn't directly related to our survival on a primal level, including why we post on these forums, why we maintain friendships, and why when deprived of it we feel rejected and unwanted despite having all of our basic needs met.