Strange life, this. How does anybody stand it without some fond sense for the depravity of stupidity.
I intended to write another post tonight, but wrote the two sentences above and then retired to bed to read. Now, it is later and neither much reading nor much writing will be getting done. People must be crazy to write. It makes no sense to confess thoughts and feelings in this way, yet there is an unuttered loneliness without it.
There was a passage from Submission by Houellebecq that briefly outlined why writing matters and just how absurd it is that there are institutions that teach it. It is more difficult than it should be to write after reading a good author. Perhaps he is great. I am trying now to find what I do not like. Nothing breaks my heart as much as nothing mattering.
.
