Lately I have been wondering if it is necessary at all to finish novels. Too often, the endings are so disappointing. You have been seduce to enter into a world constructed by an author only to discover that their imaginations cannot possibly outdo the endings or changes that life itself serves you. Enough to encounter that other world. Enough to rejoice in the otherness of it. Let's not spoil it by being reminded at the end, of the neat, bourgeois world that the writer lives in.
Ditto for dance it seems.
Just keep dancing. Don't stop.
I almost did not finish Molloy. I thought, do I really need to finish this? I get it. I get this world of Beckett - this musty, toothless, toes-falling off, grey world that is terrifying, really. But driven, less by curiosity and more by my ego I admit, I persevered and was rewarded by the odd change of rhythm. A subtle yet dramatic transformation. A micro shift that continues to linger in my body.