If you turn to big names like Shakespeare, da Vinci, or, Godwin’s law notwithstanding,
Hitler—the ultimate evil—to define a point of reference from which to move the absolute
blandness underlying our tedious yet convenient inadequacy, there is a risk of throwing
yourself at Newton’s flaming laser sword of a sort. But even if you abandon the trenches
to be content with the contemplation of the Bavarian gentians, your obliging neighbour
will get his hands on you eventually.
My dentist told me that I grind my teeth while sleeping,
and I am not entirely sure if I should be upset or relieved.
I know my endless craving for affection has been tiring
for quite some time now, and if you ask me if I am dead
inside, then I may well be, but that one random remark
could make all the difference. You see, I thought I had
to grit my teeth to keep from giving her the satisfaction.
It turned out that, while she enjoys the Riviera, the one
who gives a damn is the quiet man with a handpiece.
Armed and determined, I prowl the interiors of my humble dwelling.
My weapon? A tightly folded premium kitchen towel. My prey? A fat,
buzzing housefly. But damn if I don’t feel like a real seasoned hunter.
And everything would be just fine if only I knew where the unsettling
sense of misplaced anger came from.
There was a time when I thought that there was a real possibility that life could be an act
of intentional cruelty, but now all I can say is that I no longer believe in the whole idea
of intentionality.
Any self-respecting hostage of life, slowly forgetting human words,
would stick to reflexes: dinner, long-dead Yeats, masturbation, sleep,
and so on and so forth, for if the French are to be believed, l’appétit
vient en mangeant.
As the big words settle at the bottom of Crawford Lake, I wonder
if that sediment might one day do more than just spoil the flavour
of the hazelnuts my distant heir will be snacking on while reading
tracks on a pack hunt.
If I had died captivated by the empty house of the stare,
where would my feathers have fallen? I remember that,
while calling me names and laughing, the other habitués
of labyrinthine school corridors were just as oblivious.
Forty years later, I barely recognise the nameless faces
staring back at me from the old photographs, but I know
that sedentary birds hold on just as desperately.
T. S. Eliot in translation, although no longer necessary—I mean, the translation, not the poet,
or so I guess—makes me think of unredeemable time. I always thought there must be a reason
for your ever-growing reluctance to touch, just like there must be a reason for my tinnitus.
After all, a correct diagnosis is essential to finding a cure. It turned out that there is no remedy
for lies.
While remaining influenced by the grammar of motives, we never failed
to satisfy that morbid curiosity of ours, despite the awakening resistance
to unsettling habits, because of pride that could hardly bear the modesty
of demeanour. ‘So what?’ you ask, reading Horace or Ovid. ‘Barbarians
like us, unless they delighted in words, would admit that life is a process
of elimination.’
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