Back on October 15 of last year I wrote the following in my journal after watching the film Genius (2016), after (finally) finishing, Thomas Wolfe’s Look Homeward, Angel:

“Words and joy and ecstasy. An ecstasy I used to have, and one that allowed these energies to flow through me instead of freezing in place and rendering parts of my body partly or completely useless. I stopped writing for myself or joy or love or desire but because I thought I was supposed to and I thought someone would give a damn if I did. But it was all a blight on my human-ness and ability to function. It’s no coincidence that when I stopped writing these physical ailments started. I began holding myself back and investing my energy and time into another person instead of my characters but unlike my writing I rarely got the result I hoped for, if ever. I have since rewritten great amounts, but written very little. Rewriting can bring satisfaction but it doesn’t release the energies that writing does, that first, rough, scratched out part of your being put down on paper for no one to see but yourself. That is the supreme joy of being a writer and I have gotten more out of that than out of all the publications I have had.”

That was over four months ago and I had believed I’d found my way back to the writing life that had sustained me for so long, only it wasn’t to be, as this blog (and the lack of entries since then) proves. Two days after I wrote that my mother flew in for a visit, which I was excited for, only it went immediately south when the airline abandoned her at the gate, in a wheelchair, terrified. For over an hour we desperately tried to get to her. Finally, a group of young people who didn’t even speak English saw how much she was struggling and managed to bring her to us. They couldn’t understand us and so I couldn’t properly think them but I hope they felt my gratitude.

Yet that was only the beginning. Her visit almost immediately became prolonged when her living situation with my sister became untenable, leaving her with nowhere else to go for an indeterminate period. Struggling with this unplanned event, and a new, overwhelming job, I completely lost the writing life I had touched briefly again.

Now that I’m here, writing this, I hope it means I’m getting back there again, or at least moving in the right direction.

Look Homeward, Angel took me most of 2023 to read, including a restart after we moved to Florida. It was the first thing I’ve read of his, despite my obsession with 1920s writers. In many ways it is overwrought, repetitive, and full of the senselessness that can only come with youth, and yet it has some of the most beautiful passages of prose I’ve ever read. Genius is an apt title for a movie about this man, despite what critics made of Jude Law’s performance. Personally, I was sold and immersed in this grey world they created, punctuated by Wolfe’s passion and talent. I have nothing original to add about Wolfe’s work, except for the impact it had on me. I believe little in destiny, but certain books seem to swirl around in my orbit for years and I only read them when they’ll make the deepest impact, and this was certainly one of those books. I highly recommend the film and this book and I certainly have added the rest of his work to my list. Thanks for the inspiration, Thomas.

Anyone have a favorite work by Thomas Wolfe, or perhaps a favorite passage from one of his books?