“In my writing I am acting as a map maker- an explorer of psychic areas...a cosmonaut of inner space- and I see no point in exploring areas that have already been thoroughly surveyed.”- William S., “It’s the edges of the maps that fascinate ...” ― David Mitchell, If there's a place you got to go I'm the one you need to know I'm the map I'm the map, mapped, The road has got me hypnotized And I'm speeding into a new sunrise, They noted each other’s coordinates And carefully stamped the numbers into their own Well-traipsed battle-scarred paths
Next a poem by a nobel winner no less, and one whose imagery I particularly enjoy. I hope you find her words as pleasing and vivid as I do.
Map – By Wisława Szymborska –
(Translated, from the Polish, by Clare Cavanagh.)
Flat as the table
it’s placed on.
Nothing moves beneath it
and it seeks no outlet.
Above—my human breath
creates no stirring air
and leaves its total surface
Its plains, valleys are always green,
uplands, mountains are yellow and brown,
while seas, oceans remain a kindly blue
beside the tattered shores.
Everything here is small, near, accessible.
I can press volcanoes with my fingertip,
stroke the poles without thick mittens,
I can with a single glance
encompass every desert
with the river lying just beside it.
A few trees stand for ancient forests,
you couldn’t lose your way among them.
In the east and west,
above and below the equator—
quiet like pins dropping,
and in every black pinprick
people keep on living.
Mass graves and sudden ruins
are out of the picture.
Nations’ borders are barely visible
as if they wavered—to be or not.
I like maps, because they lie.
Because they give no access to the vicious truth.
Because great-heartedly, good-naturedly
they spread before me a world
not of this world.