As a convalescent, I've lived as slow and repetitive life; yet now I see it close to an end. The French colleagues start sending me not only forms to fill, but also planning for speeches and activities. In a few days, my summer, as hard as it may actually have been, and in more than one way, will be finished. And the research and writing I've got in front of me is much more serious than I've ever attempted. There is no way of messing it up now.
I wonder what kind of answer I will get from Amsterdam in October; it would free me from the necessity of providing for my next year's sustenance. Hopefully it can be safeguarded at a distance of many months; it would give me a kind of lightness to go on attempting what I really want, to be choosy.
Overall, it costs me little. There's no sound or fury about leaving the safety, what an illusory safety!, of my employment and my academic small world. There is a certain bravery on display, I presume, but I'm still very far from my limits. Nonetheless, I can imagine many people might feel uneasy in my place, just for stepping into that other erudition and that other art of writing; not mentioning money, credits, buying apartments, hearing other tongues. I'm beyond those many kinds and ways of stress. On the contrary, the decision I've taken gives me certitude and clearness of target, and as a consequence, greater comfort. Even if I were not reading Maalouf's Léon l'Africain, as in fact I did.
It is after all such a natural destiny, or such a cultured one, should I say, with so many roots, examples, paradigms and wisdom left behind. I'm just marching on such a safely trodden path.