They talked about death. Hoensch said that death itself was only an illusion under permanent construction, that in reality it didn’t exist.
There was a lot of rereading for me (Infinite Jest, V, Mao II, Brave New World, Naked Lunch, Lord of Flies, The Trial, Swann’s Way, Crime and Punishment) and other side-stuff to do (a thesis on IP and philosophy courses) but still I managed to finally sink my teeth into a few great books. Here are short highlights:
<read on —>
He meets a jazz musician who tells him about chickens that talk and probably think.
“The worst of it,” the musician says to him, “is that the governments of the planet know it and that’s why so many people raise chickens.”
The boy objects that the chickens are raised to be eaten. The musician says that’s what the chickens want. And he finishes by saying:
“Fucking masochistic chickens, they have our leaders by the balls.”
He wrote an essay on the future of literature, which began and ended with the word nothing.
If it were possible to convey what one feels when night falls and the stars come out and one is alone in the vastness, and life’s truths (night truths) begin to march past one by one, somehow swooning or as if the person out in the open were swooning or as if a strange sickness were circulating in the blood unnoticed.
What a sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench.
I can’t imagine our world without fog in it. Much less the works of art that are full of clarity. Maybe that’s because fog is ever ambigious, unclear and touching. In our overstimulated lifes it’s a nature’s way of letting us have some peace of mind, separating us from the excess of the objects in the background. Imagination as well as Goya’s demons come into play, the scene is set just for them.
-> read on ->