"To write a diary every day is like returning to one's own vomit"
- Enoch Powell
About this Quote
Enoch Powell's quote, "To write a diary every day is like returning to one's own vomit," is a stark and visceral metaphor that reveals a deeply unfavorable view of the practice of everyday journal writing. In essence, Powell is comparing the act of reviewing one's thoughts and experiences each day to an undesirable, even repulsive, experience of returning to something declined and threw up.
The metaphor of "vomit" suggests something that has actually been expelled from the self, unwanted and unpleasant. This choice of imagery implies that Powell views the process of everyday journal composing as one that includes dredging up past feelings, thoughts, and occasions that need to otherwise be discarded as soon as they have been revealed. It can suggest a belief that constantly reviewing and taping one's daily activities may result in a kind of fixation on the past, stuck in the unpleasant or mundane aspects of life, instead of progressing or living in today.
In addition, Powell's usage of this metaphor could be translated as a review of introspection and self-examination, suggesting that such practices might lead to obsessive self-absorption or a cyclical dwelling on one's own life at the expense of external engagement. In returning to one's past reflections, similar to vomit, there is a sense that the process might be unhealthy or counterproductive, possibly attracting a melancholic or stagnant frame of mind instead of motivating development and modification.
It's likewise possible that Powell sees diaries as a useless exercise that bears no considerable fruit or revelation. Since journal entries are often filled with the minutiae of daily life, Powell may be suggesting that such information are unimportant and not worthy of duplicated consideration.
Ultimately, Powell's comment can be viewed as a challenge to individuals to question the value they find in self-reflection and the potential effects of spending excessive time traversing the courses of their past selves.
"My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane"
"Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time"
