It can be hard to appreciate just how large each moment of each day is, how much more is going on than we experience.

From Days are enormous by Henrik Karlsson, a review of Solvej Balle’s On the Calculation of Volume.  I liked the beginning of the review.

Since I began working on this essay three hours ago, around 21,000 people have, statistically, died. Now the sky is low and cloudy; I’m feeling tired, and looking at the numbers, I learn that about 10 million people are having sex as I type this sentence.

It can be hard to appreciate just how large each moment of each day is, how much more is going on than we experience.

Even just thinking about the fact that every place I’ve ever visited still exists (however reconfigured) gives me vertigo. In the medical factory where I worked at 21, the production lines are still going, and have done so, more or less continuously, for the 15 years since I last thought of them. There are people living in every house and apartment I’ve ever stayed in: if I were to go back and peek through the windows, I’d see them, as real as I. Also, everyone I’ve ever been on a date with is—I hope—still alive, somewhere, occupied with a life that feels like the world to them. And everyone I’ve worked with, or met on a bus, or been to school with.

I think about this, or rather I feel it—the heaviness of it—as I read the first six books of Solvej Balle’s On the Calculation of Volume. It is one of the more moving experiences of art I’ve had this year.