As a child I thought adults knew the answers. That somewhere there was an age after which everything became clear. Now I am that age myself, and the questions have grown more numerous, not fewer.
Questions with no address
Why do some people stay in memory while others vanish? Where does time go when you do not notice it? What do we really remember about those we loved?
I do not know. And the longer I live, the calmer I feel about not knowing.
A question without an answer used to seem like a mistake to me. As if I had not thought hard enough or had read the wrong book. Now it seems to me that some questions are not meant to be closed. They are like windows: board them up and the house goes dark.
Living beside a question
There are people who carry their questions for many years. They do not wait for an answer and they do not torment themselves. They simply live beside them, as with an old neighbour. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they are silent.
An answer ends a conversation. A question continues it.
I have noticed that my books always grow out of questions, not answers. If I know in advance how a story will end, I find it dull to write. If I do not know, I write in order to find out. And often I never do.
There is probably something alive in that. As long as the question stays open, you keep looking, listening, being surprised. Once you have understood everything, you can stop.
I would not want to stop. Better to be left with a few questions I will live with to the end than with one answer after which there is nothing left to wait for.
