The diary is not an autobiography or a self-portrait or a künstlerroman. It is a different thing, one balanced sometimes awkwardly, sometimes with poise, between public and private. A diary is performative, it possesses an “I” or a voice. It is at the same time an illusion, an almost imperative idiocy — a dream that life or time or the self can be trapped buzzing in the jar of language.
Perhaps because our selves are now teetering in new ways between public and private — we’re persistently watched, recorded, documented, and trapped, buzzing, in screens of isolation — the diary form is of renewed interest to literary writers. And perhaps because of the new ways in which we teeter, the diary is both enough and not enough at the same time. … Read More
Perhaps because our selves are now teetering in new ways between public and private — we’re persistently watched, recorded, documented, and trapped, buzzing, in screens of isolation — the diary form is of renewed interest to literary writers. And perhaps because of the new ways in which we teeter, the diary is both enough and not enough at the same time. … Read More
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