The world will know and understand me someday. But if that day does not arrive, it does not greatly matter. ~ George Sand
July 1 is the birthday of writer George Sand. I would not have known this save for the recurring daily email I get from The Writer’s Almanac with interesting tidbits of information about all sorts of writers and such. There is a brief bio of Sand on the page, which includes the following:
Sand was one of the most famous women of her time, not just for her writing but for her scandalous behavior — everything from her men’s clothing and cigars to her sexual exploits were in the public eye. She had a long string of lovers, including Frédéric Chopin, and her many friends included Honoré de Balzac, Émile Zola, Eugène Delacroix, Ivan Turgenev, and Gustave Flaubert. Sand and Flaubert were especially close, although the two novelists disagreed on just about everything from politics to the role of women to the purpose of art. They spent long hours together, smoking and discussing literature and humanity; they exchanged frequent letters, and read each other’s unpublished work. Sand was 17 years older than Flaubert; he addressed his letters to her “dear master,” while she addressed hers “friend of my heart.”
To have my life described thusly would be so awesome. How interesting (or not) that the choices we make so often do not lead us toward our instinctual aims. Or perhaps, it is all part of some grand plan that is a whole lot more aware than I might be. It could just be that after 15 months without travel I am feeling a summer of discontent in a summer that should be entirely welcome in its aimlessness.