So-called great men are always terribly contradictory. That is forgiven them with all their other follies.

Though contradictoriness is not folly: a fool is stubborn, but does not know how to contradict himself.

Leo Tolstoy

If I’m writing in a character’s voice and he or she suddenly blurts something out, is that “me”? Well, sort of. That blurt came out of me, after all. But is it really “me”? Do I “believe” it? Well, who cares? There it is. Is it good? Any power in it? If so, it would be crazy not to use it. That’s how characters get made: we export fragments of ourselves, then give those fragments pants and a hairstyle and a hometown and all of that.

Having made a character in this way, we can take a step back, look a little askance at “him.” Any consequences to believing this way? Any suspicious overtones in what “he” just said? Any collateral damage anticipated? Latent unforeseen consequences?

Mostly we walk around identifying with one set of opinions and assessing the world from that position. Our inner orchestra has been instructed that certain instruments are to dominate, others to play softly or not at all.

Writing, we get a chance to change the mix. Quieter instruments are allowed to come to the fore; our usual blaring beliefs are asked to sit quietly, horns in their laps.

This is good; it reminds us that those other, quieter instruments were there all the time. And that, by extrapolation, every person in the world has his or her inner orchestra, and the instruments present in their orchestras are, roughly speaking, the same as the ones in ours.

George Saunders, Swim In Pond In Rain

I have this recurring dream where I walk into this forest.

And on the trees there’s bark, and the bark is brown.

And the leaves—brown, some of them yellow, and there is green ones. And the ground is, um, regular.

So I’m walking through this forest, and who should I discover? It is, of course, my own self.

Happy and nice guy. “Hello.”

I have the clarity of mind to ask something long not queried. “How are . . . me?”

The reply, however, is interrupted by the rotors of an air colossus.

Aaron Chen, Life In Questions