Thaw

Late last night, after hammering away at Chapter 1 of my book for several hours straight, I mused that writing may be "frozen thought," in the same way Goethe referred to architecture as "frozen music." Late it was, indeed: I notice things now, in matinal lucidity, that I may not have last night.

For instance, I ought not simply to say "writing," but rather, less aphoristically but more appropriately, "the product of our writing." I of all people should know not to equate that which is written with the process by means of which that "that" is produced. And that process, "writing" in the true sense, is hardly frozen; instead, it is dynamic and fluid. It is a frozen river thawed.

Rather than criticize my own pith, however, I suppose I could level a charge against Goethe's parallel antecedent. Surely any architect worth her salt, even in Goethe's time, would grimace to equate the building with the built?