I’ve just infected you. I’ve planted an idea in your head. It doesn’t matter how big or small it is. I’ve influenced your mind. It doesn’t matter what I say, you can’t help listening. Stop reading. But even then, it is too late. This is what keeps authors writing. It’s the feeling of power. A single, a single, a single word can change the world. Now that is power. Fuck superheroes, fuck soldiers, they haven’t the slightest chance against ideas.
There is an author who I haven’t read in twenty years, but who’s quotes recently „came under my nose“, as the Germans say, and I find them very appropriate, by the gods. Dostoyevsky; oh yeah baby, we are talking classics here. Mark Twain defined a classic as „a book which everyone praises but no one reads.“ Well. I have read Dostoyevsky at least, though it seems an age ago, so I don’t feel myself entirely incapable of talking about what he wrote.
In any case, there are things he wrote or said that appeal to my sense of craziness. Among it all is the sentence: „Right or wrong, it’s very pleasant to break something from time to time.“ Fyodor, you hit it on the nose.
Now, I won’t tell you what I broke (it isn’t the frail Moroccan table, that is past history, and it wasn’t on purpose), but you should know that I enjoyed it very much.
It’s like when you’re suddenly on TV: Hi mom! No, but it isn’t, it’s just a fucking blog, and who knows if mom is reading it? A shadow of doubt there, thank God. As Samuel Clemens aka Mark Twain said, “it is better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool, than to open it and remove all doubt.” So maybe I am lucky, and, although I haven’t kept my trap shut as Samuel recommended, at least mother, perhaps, hasn’t read all the foolish things I’ve written here and still has doubts as to whether I am a fool or not.
Yeah, so I am listening to Taxman from the Beatles, which doesn’t fit in the least, but oh well. Sometimes the music is on a completely different tangent to the thoughts. Or whatever. Not just sometimes.
And dad? He knows I am a fool, and he’s proud of me anyway. Good dad, honest dad. Back in the day, when I was a baker, my first profession, he said: that’s a good, honorable profession! I’m proud of you, my son! And he meant it, and I am very, very thankful for that. I suppose there are many dads who are real bitches, but my dad is one of those rare cases who doesn’t give a fuck what I do for a living: it’s alright. When he reads this, he’ll say: my son is an author, that’s an honorable profession! Ha. Haha. Muahahaha…! *gasp*
Listening to Zhopa, from Leningrad.
How, oh how, dammit, did the authors of yore do it: Abstain from being repetitive. Well, some of them simply didn’t, and it didn’t seem to bother them either. But so many good authors I’ve read manage to cover similar ground again and again without repeating themselves. It’s horrible; horribly good. I ask myself whether they had such good memories that they knew exactly what they had written in the past, or if they searched, in the minute and painstaking hours of the night, through their old manuscripts to see if they hadn’t perhaps said that in just that way and change it accordingly if necessary. I am inclined to believe that they simply had good memories. After all, those were the days where one had to remember innumerable stanzas of epic poetry by heart just because someone thought that was an important part of your culture. Try that today with the typical pupil and he or she will tell you: are you insane go fuck yourself.
Baro Foro from Gogol Bordello, for those who are interested.
I write on the computer, like any normal human in this day and age. And, when I have nothing better to do and the crazy world closes on my mind like a bird of prey screaming down out of the blue at 300 mph, I do a search in my manuscript for repetitions. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens. And what do I find? More repetitions than I care for, to put it mildly.
My memory simply isn’t that good. I’ve been trained to forget what my mind considers to be nonessential, and that could include some things that are, in fact, not quite as nonessential as my mind believes them to be. It’s a day and age of discarded information, and sometimes I ask myself what treasures are being discarded simply because my mind didn’t even bother to look properly. I read the first three words and already my mind is deciding wether to ignore the rest or not. Maybe i should, after all, at least read the first complete sentence before reaching a decision? At least that much?
Those damned authors are at it again…
Shall I explain that statement? Authors allow themselves to be fucked by words. They also encourage words to copulate, and they’ll do anything to make the reader cum (intellectually, of course, har har). God help the women and men who live with authors. They daren’t believe a word they hear.