questions about questions

So I’m reading a series of lectures turned to essays by Margaret Atwood; hence the thoughts about self-expression and writing and art and the like. Things I periodically consider in relation to myself. Then, within a few weeks or so, the very idea that I would consider myself as having anything to do with artistic expression or activities turns to self-disgust that I would ever be so deluded. But that’s another story.

It was funny, because whenever I do go through a period of journaling I generally ask more questions than I write statements. Part of that is because I don’t ever believe I have a definitive answer to anything at all. But part of it is just that by writing the questions, I can consider the answers. And most importantly, any answers I consider are not written down, so I am not committed in any way to them, so no further action is required and they can be conveniently released back into the ether without tainting me in any way. I am very much a freak.

And that was another diversion from my original consideration. The point is, I came upon a paragraph in the book that was generally one question after another about what it means to be an artist in our society, what freedoms and responsibilities are connected with that role, what that role it, et cetera. And it made me think of my typical mode of journal writing.

I don’t know what significance that has, if any, but it made me feel a little less cowardly for doing it. There is always value in asking the questions. I still probably need to focus a little more attention on getting down some possible answers.

"In what ways, if any, does talent set you apart? Does it exempt you from the duties and responsibilities expected of others? Or does it load you up with even more duties and responsibilities, but of a different kind? Are you to be a detached observer, pursuing your art for its own sake, and having arcane kinds of fun -- or rather, experiences that will enrich your understanding of Life and the Human Condition -- and if you do this to the exclusion of other people and their needs, will you become your own sin-soaked gargoyle? Or ought you to be a dedicated spokesperson for the downtrodden of this earth, like Gogol or Charles Dickens or Victor Hugo or the Zola of Germinal or the Orwell of Down and Out in Paris and London? Should you write your own J'accuse, like Zola, or are all such accusations vulgar? Ought you to support worthy causes, or avoid them like the plague? Are you, vis-a-vis the average taxpayer, a superfluous parasite, or the essential heart of the matter? (...) In short: if you acknowledge any responsibility to society at all, even insofar as you claim to describe it, does your vocation make you the master of all you survey, or the slave of somebody else's lamp?" -- Margaret Atwood. Negotiating with the Dead

And maybe because I don't think of myself as an artist (and have never been one), I substitute citizen for writer and life for vocation when I think about many of those questions. I don't know that it holds true as a strict parallel -- well, it doesn't -- but those are the kinds of things I wonder about. And they are questions I have a lot of trouble answering.