“Miss Lonelyhearts drank steadily. He was smiling an innocent, amused smile, the smile of an anarchist sitting in the movies with a bomb in his pocket.”
From MISS LONELYHEARTS by Nathaniel West.
Reads
“I gently sucked Simone's breast while waiting for the soft-boiled eggs, and she ran her fingers through my hair. Her mother was the one who brought us the eggs, but I didn't even turn around, I assumed it was a maid, and I kept on sucking the breast contentedly. Nor was I ultimately disturbed when I recognized the voice, but since she remained and I couldn't pass up even one instant of my pleasure, I thought of pulling down my pants as for a call of nature, not ostentatiously, but merely hoping she would leave and delighted at going beyond all limits.”
I knew Georges Bataille's STORY OF THE EYE was supposed to be “transgressive”, but this is just trash. I cannot for the life of me understand what the appeal was to Sontag or Sartre, the appeal that drew me to look into the book to begin with. It is, thus far, not even sexy.
“Simone settled on the toilet, and we each ate one of the hot eggs with salt. With the three that were left, I softly caressed her body, gliding them between her buttocks and thighs, then I slowly dropped them in the water one by one. Finally, after viewing them for a while, immersed, white, and still hot (this was the first time she was seeing them peeled, that is naked, drowned under her beautiful cunt), Simone continued the immersion with a plopping noise akin to that of soft-boiled eggs.”
Odd fixation with eggs and urine, the latter of course I know to be a fetish but one I never could quite understand. None of the characters' actions seem to make any sense to me, they're all just stupid in the same way modern porn actors typically are. Most reviews of this loathsome pamphlet of poorly conceived depravity seem to refer to it as “thought-provoking”. I, thus far, cannot see why. It's short enough that I'll carry on with it anyway, but I have a feeling I'll long for the time wasted on it nonetheless, no matter how little.
I've been awaking past midnight for the past few nights now, tummy growling with want. And every night I succumb to its needs by prepping a little snack. Terrible new habit.
“The newspapers, needless to say, complied with the instructions given them: optimism at all costs. If one was to believe what one read in them, our populace was giving 'a fine example of courage and composure.' But in a town thrown back upon itself, in which nothing could be kept secret, no one had illusions about the 'example' given by the public. To form a correct idea about the courage and composure talked about by our journalists you had only to visit one of the quarantine depots or isolation camps established by authorities. As it so happens, the narrator, being fully occupied elsewhere, had no occasion to visit any of them, and must fall back on Tarrou's diary for a description of the conditions of these places.”
From Albert Camus' THE PLAGUE.
The above passage basically highlights the role filled today by blogs and social media, the role which traditional journalism for the most part cannot quite fulfill. Social media however is positioned to soon be taken over by an onslaught of AI-powered content, likely fueled by mix of corporate and government agendas, and people are likely to be forced to take their genuine voices elsewhere.
“You get married, you go on loving a bit longer, you work. And you work so hard that it makes you forget love.”
From THE PLAGUE by Albert Camus.
“For while he himself spoke from the depths of long days of brooding upon his personal distress, and the image he had tried to impart had been slowly shaped and proved by the fires of passion and regret, this meant nothing to the man to whom he was speaking, who pictured a conventional emotion, a grief that is traded on the marketplace, mass-produced.”
From Albert Camus' THE PLAGUE.
“People linked together by friendship, affection, or physical love found themselves reduced to hunting for tokens of their past communion within the compass of the ten-word telegram. And since, in practice, the phrases one can use in a telegram are quickly exhausted, long lives passed side by side, or passionate yearnings, soon declined to the exchange of such trite formulas as: 'Am well. Always thinking of you. Love'.”
This passage from THE PLAGUE by Albert Camus brings to mind how interaction with friends and lovers with whom hours upon hours were once upon a time regularly spent laughing, discussing, and debating have now been reduced to likes and shares. An unintended consequence of suddenly being separated by time-zones, and the Defacto mode of communication being social media: instant yet far from substantial.
“Some few of us however persisted in writing letters and gave much time to hatching plans for corresponding with the outside world.”
THE SOLAR GRID #1 is completely sold out. Issues #2-8 are still in stock. I'm sure the time will come when I look upon these single-chapter editions as the strange time capsules that they are.
Started THE PLAGUE by Albert Camus. This being my third Camus, it's now very evident that Camus' writing appeals to me. Adequately sparse, just the right words in exactly the right places in a way that evokes more than what is being said. Something I don't find entirely true of most contemporary authors who lean towards the extra telegrammatic. The buildup of eerie over the first 30 pages in THE PLAGUE is really perfectly paced.
Not quite a collection of short fiction as much as it presents blueprints for approaching fiction, often very grand, interestingly-structured fiction. The reviews of fictitious non-existent books are my favorite in the collection, but there are only a handful of those, and the rest is mostly pretty straight fiction which I didn't get much out of. Not that I didn't like them... Full review of Borges' FICTIONS over at Ganzeer.Reviews.
Day lost to migraine. Will attempt to turn in early tonight and get a fresh start tomorrow.
In other news:
Lionsgate Inks Deal With AI Firm to Mine Its Massive Film and TV Library — The Hollywood Reporter: A new age of schlock is upon us.
Society of the Psyop — E-Flux: Wherever there's the smoke of a conspiracy theory, you better believe there's fire.
Michael Chabon on Israel's latest attack on Lebanon:
Finished Borges' FICTIONS and while I know I just read something great, I'm also not entirely sure how to feel about it. Full review coming to Ganzeer.Reviews soon. Moving on to César Aira's THE SEAMSTRESS AND THE WIND.
This will be my first Aira who I know nothing about. I found the cover-art delightful enough to nab a used ex-library copy off the interwebs though, and sure enough upon a read of the opening paragraph, it seems to fit squarely in the headspace I'm in these days:
These last weeks, since before coming to Paris, I've been looking for a plot for the novel I want to write: a novel of successive adventures, full of anomalies and inventions. Until now nothing occurred to me, except the title, which I've had for years and which I cling to with blank obstinacy: “The Seamstress and the Wind.”
Very Calvino WINTER'S NIGHT in a way.
Coffee after 4:00pm for me is usually a bad idea, guaranteed to keep me up until well after midnight. So I was surprised to find myself crashing immediately after a 7:00pm Americano, only to reemerge among the living at 1:00am. Circadian rhythm officially fucked.
Phase 1 of PROJECT BLOSSOM complete. Now I can put it aside before entering phase 2 later next week. PROJECT TWENTY-FIVE I must dedicate Monday to, do the whole thing start-to-finish in a single day. Hoping to have 3 full days assigned entirely to TSG next week, need to pencil in a minimum of 6 pages, but more if I can manage. This weekend is for my boy.
The second half of the Penguin edition of Borges' FICTIONS seems to be dedicated to more straightforward short fiction, but much of it still flies over my head regardless. Close to 70% into this strainful little book that I had no idea would be so difficult. Late night gyoza to help me power through.
On a completely different note, love this collection of Kafka covers by Peter Mendelsund.