We start off slow, but just like that the appetite is whetted. What is it we always say in the study of Borges? One man is all men. That's as true in literature as it is in philosophy.
These phrases, to me, are like fine linen or silk—luxurious, sophisticated, pleasant to be around. The imagination is a battlefield of a body; like Cerberus with heads of desire, depravity, and good character each wanting to consume in turn. Inside you are several wolves; you must feed them all to have any ideas at all and express them into art.
Life imitates art, as any one knows. But Hugo takes us further, and says that the art that precedes us is inherent in us, in the voices that fight together to make the expression that greets the page. Art imitates art; and the art of our lives is always held in judgment with the art in our hearts (and if we are often found wanting it is perhaps the case that we are not the sole artist of the work that is our life.) A paragraph break, and then we conclude with power:
It is often said to children that bravery is not not being afraid but being afraid and doing the scary thing anyways. I think we can say similarly about any act of creation, including creating the next day in the art of one's life, and the fear that swallows one on its evening threshold. I hesitate, every day of my life, with every step, breath, or stroke of the pen, not because I am overly fearful but because there is so much to compare to. The conscience catches, tumbles the mind and body like the chaos of a tumbler til its contents are borne smooth. An infinity of relative judgments awaits any production or issue, any art you might create, and still the only thing to do, is to open the door, nevertheless.
