Diaries, notes and sketches of the inner life, not out of any great inclination to spiritual matters it must be said but, rather, as a result of any noteworthy 'outward' events being so very rare.
A low key, provincial life, lived at least three degrees from any significant semblance of reality or authenticity. A duplicitous life, perhaps, but with malice towards none. An unwittingly casual approach to matters of prime importance, a kind of childish indifference to the politics of the times, the fervent disputations that so animate and inflate the egos of one' s contemporaries.
There is much speculation in the half lit corridors over who beds who, and in the main this conversation is conducted in such high spirits that little thought is spared for any of the would-be aggrieved parties, the unknowing spouses of the guilty persons.
The puritan, adjusting his head gear ever so slightly, complains bitterly of the lack of moral fibre he finds amongst his compatriots. It is the cool indifference of the gossipers as much as the hot and illegitimate passions of the merry makers that stokes his indignation, so much so that his face is contorted into a ghastly form, almost unrecognizable even to himself.
He sees himself and the others from a distance, like a foreign or italicized word in the margin of a text written by some other hand. The iron-like rules that govern his heart and speech prevent the growth of a space for doubt or humour or sympathy or a myriad of other human emotions. He must stand in high judgement, seeing the moment and mistaking it for a sequence, mistaking equally himself for God.
~~~~~
At the book fair you reluctantly put Everything Flows back on the table. You will never read it...not that you will read more than ten pages of the books you did acquire.
Pepys. The unequalled self. A book on the boxer, Muhammad Ali. A biography of Leonard Woolf. A selection of Betjeman, two children's books. In addition you have persuaded bt to purchase Amiel's journal if he can find it in the desert bookshops of the gulf.
The first journals...to record the inner movement of the soul; now everything must be noted with a relentless tedium, an inescapable logic. One is not thinking any more, merely composing for the next entry.
What purpose can such an exercise serve if not to puff the ego up even more? A retreat...a recognition of the losses, a writing out of oneself to distance oneself from oneself?
~~~
Geoff Dyer, who usually writes with some verve, has a disappointing piece on (war) reporting and fiction. Why this endless fascination with the traumas, guilt and 'experiences' of the men who inflict such violence on other people? Had the same uneasy feeling reading Yellow Birds (which was a good-ish book, even though Dyer thinks it was tripe). I suppose one might call this the Camus-effect: other people on the scene are merely bit parts in the mechanism which reveals the inner depths of the existential hero or, more accurately, the flawed existential hero.
~~~
Some interesting notes being struck up about how the economics curriculum needs to be revamped in the wake of the financial crisis. Note to self: must get my book out.
~~~~~
At the book fair you reluctantly put Everything Flows back on the table. You will never read it...not that you will read more than ten pages of the books you did acquire.
Pepys. The unequalled self. A book on the boxer, Muhammad Ali. A biography of Leonard Woolf. A selection of Betjeman, two children's books. In addition you have persuaded bt to purchase Amiel's journal if he can find it in the desert bookshops of the gulf.
The first journals...to record the inner movement of the soul; now everything must be noted with a relentless tedium, an inescapable logic. One is not thinking any more, merely composing for the next entry.
What purpose can such an exercise serve if not to puff the ego up even more? A retreat...a recognition of the losses, a writing out of oneself to distance oneself from oneself?
~~~
Geoff Dyer, who usually writes with some verve, has a disappointing piece on (war) reporting and fiction. Why this endless fascination with the traumas, guilt and 'experiences' of the men who inflict such violence on other people? Had the same uneasy feeling reading Yellow Birds (which was a good-ish book, even though Dyer thinks it was tripe). I suppose one might call this the Camus-effect: other people on the scene are merely bit parts in the mechanism which reveals the inner depths of the existential hero or, more accurately, the flawed existential hero.
~~~
Some interesting notes being struck up about how the economics curriculum needs to be revamped in the wake of the financial crisis. Note to self: must get my book out.
2 comments:
Do people still read Camus mate?
Apropos of your last piece on that kitsch painting, it is only kitsch from the outside just as all societies are kitschy from the outside. in the end everything is kitsch, not only from the inside but outside also, but only the discerning few can see it, though only sometimes. your reference to Dyer is pertinent, since he specializes in kitsch writing of a certain kind, like generally all writers usually specialize in, except the few, but they are not really writers, they are philosophers, like say Schopenhauer is.
essentially, this kitsch pervades our lives and defines it and gives it a certain definition, which is also a kitsch like definition. the most important books and music does not exist, like the least important book or movie or music.
all these books and musical pieces are only so-called, like traveling tourists with their handicams and i-phone cameras, clicking away at the pantheon and the Eiffel tower and storing these pics in their kitsch albums, which they never ever either see again or bother to know why they clicked away in the first place.
the greatest travesty of course is the kitsch industry, which is also known as the culture industry, which spawns bookshops and newspapers and articles and opinion pieces which are nothing but kitsch pieces but cloaked as philosophies or critiques but critiques of nothing.
if i were you mate, i would delete this blog, which is nothing but kitsch, a kitschy blog with no real merit.
"If I were you..."
Thankfully God has seen to it that that is not the case!
You're obviously a fairly intelligent person. Surely you can understand that both of us would be better off if you didn't read this blog? Yes?
Post a Comment