A Tolerable Level of Permanent Unhappiness
"I had never seen anything more irritating, or anything more human." —Bataille
“It’s easy,” he says. “Just wait.” And so you wait. The lights, the cars on the highway, —you think, it’s not shrill or callus, it’s thunder, it’s one-one-thousand two-one-thousand three, and "—that’s enough for an ending." He says it’s easy— —you say it’s not He says, “that’s nice.” So you—? You say it’s specious. He says, “that’s better.” “Illuminate—” “(To be authentic is to forego creation. ( i.e., creation implies contrivance... ))” Stream of conscience. That’s what he meant. § “—too many concepts” He’s speaking now through the window. “It’s like a bullet; it’s my favorite simile. It’s shallow.” one-one-thousand two-one-thousand three-one-thousand— “But it’s not really a metaphor… you know? § "But you want—a story?" A definition. "A moral which explains the point and means enough to conflate life with holy-water, hand grenades, life, the blues— An excuse: one, once. two, twice. three, thrice; then a semitone. That’s what love is worth.” § “They call it—? verve” “No, life is contained. This is the nature of cataclysm.” No life is contained? This is the nature of cataclysm. If we attempt some consummation, we become cannibals, we swallow the pedants and indulged academics ( the ones “most offended” by indulgence ), is that—? “Every poem ought to be revolting— truth? A lie constrained?” [unintelligible] life is contained, so one-one-thousand— “Breath.” two-two-thousand— three-three-thousand & suddenly you weep— the world is a dead mystery— it’s “Just like a poem.”