Have you heard of Michel Houellebecq? I feel like a fool. Never heard of him until yesterday when I read this book review (link). I will have to give him a go. I'll probably start with "Platform," one of his earlier works though some others are supposed to be his best. I'm afraid, though, that he will put me in the mood I get from reading Camus or Beckett, a nothingness bordering on despair. Why would I want to go there?
For art's sake.
I'll end up feeling the way this photograph looks.
But I kind of do right now, anyway. Sort of like sucking on a mouthful of nickels.
There are things in life that don't want you to be happy. Maybe a book by Houellebecq will make me feel better. If not better, then at least as if traveling with a companion.
The weather here, though, would make you happy. Yesterday's and today's. The sun is out and the light is brilliant. Highs in the mid-seventies, lows in the mid-fifties. But if you don't live here, don't come. There are too many people here already.
O.K. Today is a factory day. I must prepare myself for what is already becoming alien and more loathsome to me--a job. I've been taking more days off than I work, and I can already tell I won't miss working. If I can turn my attentions to what I want, I should be more than fine. For almost all of us, making things, no matter how paltry, is pleasurable. We can't see our own work with an objective or truthful eye, and the illusion of what we perceive sustains us. Right? Eugene O'Neil knew that it is our illusions that sustain us. Even for Mr. Houellebecq, I presume. Making those books counters the despair that he otherwise could feel.
Perhaps. At least.
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