ps peter

PS today I FINISHED JM Barrie's Peter Pan for the first time (I love the beginning so much I have to read it over and over and over and over again (and in that way i never quite finished what i began)) (and you would too if you read it) Barrie has a magical muse to his writing. His prose is like a stream of incessant wonder-ings and wanderings, and I love it- I follow it completely. The thoughts are so fine and fabulous that I have to stop sometimes and read it over again just to be sure that someone has communicated with grand language precisely what needed to be said concerning childhood, and mothers in particular, and well- character in general.

How I love that book.
Although towards the end I had the nauseating feeling that Barrie was bored with his work, or very tired of pretending in a real world. That real world of course BEING what is pretend in the end anyhow. Which is exactly what it should be. "It's your mind that creates this world."

Perhaps Barrie was a child when he first began to write it- or rather he must have just adopted the boys whose characters he "rubbed violently together" to create the flame of Peter. (who never wanted to grow up) and by the end JM Barrie is just a tired, worked out, kind of disappointed parent.

I suppose though, in supposing that I am kind of a writer myself [or pretend to be, therefore being real] the characters we write of have a bit of ourselves, spread out in inklings of ink word by word and position by position, play by play, puppeting and parroting so many other 'ings' that we would never do ourselves or that we might very well have done ourselves. We stand by our characters in that we are them. All of them.