If despair presents itself so surely, so tied to its object, so
restrained, as if by a soldier who covers the retreat and lets himself
be blown up for it, then it is not true despair. True despair always
immediately overtakes its target, (at this comma it becomes clear that
only the first sentence was true)Are you desperate?
Yes? You’re desperate?
You’re running away? You want to hide?
I went past the brothel as if going past the house of a lover
Authors speak a stench
The seamstresses in the pouring rain
Out the train compartment window
Finally, after five months of my life in which I could write nothing
that would satisfy me and for which no power will compensate me, though
all were obliged to do so, I come once again to the idea of addressing
myself. I have always answered whenever I really asked myself, there
was always something here to blaze out of me, out of this heap of straw
that I have been for five months, whose fate, it seems, is to be set
alight in summer and burn up faster than the spectators can blink. If
only that could happen to me! And it should happen to me ten times
over, for I don’t even regret this unhappy time. My condition is not
unhappiness, but it is not happiness either, not indifference, not
weakness, not exhaustion, not another interest, so what on earth is it?
That I don’t know likely connects with my inability to write.
This blog was uncovered by paying attention to what happens at wood s lot.
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