HAVE A BREAK:
New home. Settling in nicely. Love the view: 16 acres bordering onto a nature reserve. If this ain’t the perfect writer’s retreat I don’t know what is.
In bed with Faulkner, Spinoza & Derrida taking turns. Guess I like my males dead??? Does that mean I love spam?
OR A BROKEN NECK?
Finished re-reading Faulkner’s Requiem for a Nun. Nancy must hang for murdering Temple’s 6-month-old baby. Visiting Nancy on the night before her execution, Temple asks:
What kind of God is it that has to blackmail His customers with the whole world’s grief and ruin?
‘He don’t want you to suffer. He don’t like suffering neither. But He can’t help himself.’
Read it again: ‘He can’t help himself’…
Take the time to think about that…
I once thought I would kill a man; tower over his dead body and sing A-men. It would have sent me to jail but I didn’t mind. At least I’d have my peace n quiet. And time for my pen, a pen to people my world with faces that do not turn away when I show mine:
‘only in that forcible carceration does man find the idleness in which to compose, in the gross and simple terms of his gross and simple lusts and yearnings, the gross and simple recapitulations of his gross and simple heart.’ (Faulkner).
Reason came to my rescue, so he’s still alive. The view’s better in any case and I can take my breaks when I like.
Feeling enlivened/enlightened; light both in the sense of weight/less and optical matter. Weight matters. Optics matter. Matter matters. Matters matter. And how you tell tales tells tales. Time to put new – and older – insights into practice. I guess my break’s over now.