Why do I cut an onion?


Why do I write? This is a question I struggle with daily – why continue writing when there are so many good writers, so many exquisite books, why go on, why not delete everything and hold only a blank page in my hands?

The problem with questions is that they are rarely just questions about one thing. The question “why do I write” must then be followed by the question “why do I do anything” which then must be followed by the question “why do I live”? One can easily extend this question even to the simple task of cutting an onion. Why do I cut an onion? The real question is: will I stop cutting onions because I do not know why?

The oil sizzles in the pot. Everyone knows the answer.


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