If today the ability to read is everyone’s portion, still only a few notice what a powerful talisman has thus been put into their hands . . . and while those who have not been called seem to apply their reading ability to news reports or to the business sections of their newspapers, there are a few who remain constantly bewitched by the strange miracle of letters and words (which once, to be sure, were an enchantment and magic formula to everyone).
— Herman Hesse (1974)
Once, we could not write. Then, later, the nature of the spells we said and scratched opened up the earth and skies to us. We were awestruck in the wondrous world. Later still, we wondered at how clever we were. Here we are, now, swimming in the swathe of words upon words all saying the same things: we’re content with our words, our magickless words, and how clever we are.
Now, here, less is more. The careful selection of words is still a spell-sowing for those who know how to write and read them. The song writers and the poets know, as do the other watchers of the world. Once, we might not have understood so well (perhaps we find we’re still in a process of finding out): how could less be more? Of course, the sentiment is not so difficult, but the clean lines, the juxtapositions, the nature of what resides in the gaps might truly elude us. Mies van der Rohe drew a few graphite lines, perhaps, and which, later now, this writer still finds he’s learning: translation, from one art form to another, is a study in time. So, in words, in spells, less is more.
Yet, what of the abundance, the layers, the richness sewn deep into the fabric of all the very many books of the world? Gaps are deep within the very best and beautiful of these, within the torrid and the tremendous, within the ferocious and the frightening: some stratum of the spells, a magic seam; layers are silk thin, cotton warm, wool thick. Together, with the breath of air between, they enwrap, reflect and illuminate. Words are the delicate fabric of the human world.
Less is more. Too many words just stultify. The contentment of our modern content is a magickless morass. There was a time of awe, love, fear, respect out there in the eely black, studded with the milky sheen of stars. The fat sac of a watery moon glowered in the liquid night. We whispered soft incantations in the dark. Whichever goddesses we uttered love or reverence for, we trembled in the pauses due to them as well. Now we’ve forgotten what the words were ever for.
Our gods and goddesses are differently attired; our myths are self-aggrandisements. Magic doesn’t align with ego, and words seldom work the way they used to. What we often cannot see, or sense in other ways, is rarity. Words are rare. They can speak in tongues other than the shallow contentment of our modernity.
Once, we could not write. We have it in us to be awestruck at the wondrous world; we have it in us to be starstruck at the spells we might still lightly, deeply, sow and sew.
Hesse, H. (1974), My belief: essays on life and art. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Cited by Popova, M. (2016), The magic of the book: Hermann Hesse on why we read and always will [Online]. Available from: www.brainpickings.org (Accessed July 11, 2016).