I guess you get to a point where you look at that pain as if it were there in front of you three feet away lying in a box, an open box in a window somewhere. It's hard and cold like a bar of metal. You just look at it there and say, all right. I'll take it. I'll buy it. That's what it is. Because you know all about it, before you even go into this thing. You know the pain is part of the whole thing. And it isn't that we can say afterwards the pleasure was greater than the pain, and that's why you'd do it again. That has nothing to do it. You can't measure it, because the pain comes after and it lasts longer. So the question really is, why doesn't the pain make you say, I won't do it again, when the pain is so bad that you have to say that, but you don't?
break it down by lydia davis
favorite paragraph, obviously, that conclusive ending where the lines start throbbing you from the front, leaving you alone with your space. nevertheless it's nothing like the whole story, you should read it in its wholeness
credit goes to nat for introducing this story on her blog
(also, new music)