I was reading the autobiography of an actor, a book I picked up for a buck at a library sale. It was entertaining enough to keep me reading to the end; even picked up a piece or two of so-called “wisdom.” But then he mentioned a quote by author E.M. Forster (Howard’s End) that sent me in search of the entire piece:
“Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer.”
Oh my God.
Because that’s it, isn’t it? That’s what writing–what life–is all about. Only connect. Me to you. You to me. Person to person to animal to plant to friend to enemy to stranger to ocean waves. These shells in which we’re clothed, this weak matter soon gone to dust, doesn’t matter. Our differences? Those should matter only for the ways in which they draw us together, make us curious about one another, bring a moment of sharing, an instance of time when–BAM!–connection happens.
This is what I seek in my writing, the moment when a reader says YES! Yes, I understand. Yes, I’ve been there. Yes, you get me. Yes, I get you.