Pardon a fairly jarring digression, but the following long-age read lines from D.H. Lawrence’s wonderful essay on Herman Melville’s Moby Dick keep running through my head this morning:
But he was a deep, great artist, even if he was rather a sententious man. He was a real American in that he always felt his audience in front of him. But when he ceases to be American, when he forgets all audience, and gives us his sheer apprehension of the world, then he is wonderful, his book commands a stillness in the soul, an awe.
I sometimes use that last line when I’m talking about flow, the idea of being immersed in a sublimely creative moment, one where you get out of your own way and just “do”.