September 26
The archer does everything so that the arrow may hit — yet the hitting itself no longer belongs to him. What is his: to aim well, to draw well, to release well. The rest belongs to the wind.
On the Ends of Good and Evil, III (freely rendered)
Listening mode
The archer does everything so that the arrow may hit — yet the hitting itself no longer belongs to him. What is his: to aim well, to draw well, to release well. The rest belongs to the wind.
After an argument you write someone a message. You take your time, strike out a reproach and leave in an apology that does not come easily to you. Then you send it. No reply comes.
The next day you read your sentences again and suddenly find them clumsy. One word now sounds hurt, a closing clause self-righteous. Had the other person replied kindly, the same sentences would probably have struck you as well done.
That the outcome is not in your hands is something you can still accept. What is harder is that it works backwards. It colours the memory of what you did, and reaches for precisely the part that was supposed to belong to you. You want to know whether you acted well, and you have hardly any other measure for it than what came of it.
While you were writing, it looked different. You chose the word because it seemed accurate to you at that moment, and left the apology in because you meant it. Back then you did not yet know how the message would be received. That is exactly why you were a more reliable witness than you are today.
