the Modern Tower of Babel

Sometimes it seems to me we are like the generation of the Tower of Babel and that our struggle to communicate is as futile as theirs. Each of us bound by a distinct, individual "tongue," trying desperately to connect through a shared something--a thought, an emotion, an idea. So we try to convey, to relate, to communicate, and meet always with inevitable failure. Because what you thought, what you said, once it has been transmitted to me, it is no longer your own. It. . the something you have sought to convey. . has been reshaped, redefined by my own process of thought, of understanding, and has become mine. But then, you might argue, you've planted the seed and so it is really yours, only somewhat modified. But in that case it is neither yours nor mine because it has certainly come from somewhere else. 'There is nothing new under the sun,' no thought--to speak in abstract terms--is really new. And yet, when it becomes my own it is new to me. So it is at once new and very ancient. Like the human capacity for thought and the ideas that have sprung forth. . . and shaped us from ancient days through the modern era.

Someone asked me what I write. I said 'nothing new.' Of course. There is nothing new to write. So why do I write? I don't know. It's all been said. In so many ways. By so many brighter thinkers and more skillful writers. Is it just the infantile need for self-assertion? But to what end? Keeping in mind that miscommunication is nobody's fault -- that it can't be avoided anymore than the miscommunication between a French-speaker and a Japanese-speaker can --I wonder: perhaps writing is nothing more than the manifestation of a silly romantic notion that allows us to believe. . . to sustain faith in things like communication and the human bond. Not so silly, though. It's what makes the world go round. But that's not what I'm thinking when I write. So what am I thinking? Do I want to give my readers a peek into my own thought processes? Not really, it's hardly that interesting. Maybe it's just about making sense of things for myself, about conducting a kind of inner conversation, except that the conventions of standard communication forces me to actively engage in this inner monologue, as it were, rather than be a mere passive listener. . . .
I don't know. Perhaps as I write I'll discover why I write. And if I discover that it's just how I make sense of my own little world, well then I'll continue to write and my writing will have a new purpose: self-discovery. Now, how's that for a cliche?