Here is the essay I wrote a few years ago on porousness and why my little house full of drafty windows is just fine. The house is growing, and the new sections are by-far less porous, but one has to make environmental sacrifices now and then (not to mention how nice an un-drafty room feels in the dead of winter).
Here is Rebecca Solnit's quote, again, which is my new touchstone for writing fiction:
Listen: you are not yourself, you are crowds of others, you are as leaky a vessel as was ever made, you have spent vast amounts of your life as someone else, as people who died long ago, as people who never lived, as strangers you never met. The usual I we are given has all the tidy containment of the kind of character the realist novel specializes in and none of the porousness of our every waking moment, the loose threads, the strange dreams, the forgettings and misrememberings, the portions of a life lived through others' stories, the incoherence and inconsistency...There are other ways of telling.
Porousness. Or, as Leonard Cohen would say: "There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."
|my first leaky vessel|