Arquivo de Notes | Page 251 of 269

The Reader of the Future

Sometimes I imagine myself in front of a reader of the future. I am, to him, a complete stranger; an animal, I would say… absolutely incomprehensible. Our habits do not match, we have no affinity for tastes, our geniuses are exactly opposites. What would he think of me? Of course, everything one thinks about a little evolved animal. And knowing that my customs would cause him astonishment, I know I would never get of him any approval. Through the lens of the reader of the future, I observe, for example, my acute misanthropy: how much revulsion! how strange! How can a modern guy bow to loneliness? And if the contemptuous expression were not enough, I see it easily transmuting into hatred, once perceiving the mutual disdain. This animal, in fact, deserves a good beating! It is a real social cancer! And as cancer it cannot, under any circumstances, proliferate! Laughter, lots of laughter… The reader of the future does not know that the animal is psychologically neutered, that it disgusts the multiplication. But maybe the animal delire, once fantasizing this reader of the “future”…

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To Let the Absurd Gush

Every time I am amazed at something I write, I reflect: it will stay the way it is! For if I change, I blame myself, I close my imagination between bars, I limit my creative horizon. And if I give vent to the absurd, to the amazing, I execute exactly the opposite, extending my own limits, extending my imaginative dimension. So I got used to disliking my texts; in short, I learned never to use common sense to censor my means of expressions.

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About the Pest

As usual, the contingency exposing the fragility of man, baring him completely. Its natural reflexes: fear and despair. So, nothing new: corpses have always scared. However, perhaps the new pest has exposed a fresh mass phenomenon: the dependence on work. I say this because I see those who, forcibly cloistered, scream when they see their lives emptied of meaning, i.e., if there is no work, what remains of man?

We talk here about a class that at least has some purpose in life… But here is what the pest illuminates, despite the obvious modern economic and social fragilities: the profession-oriented life involves an obvious risk, aggravated gradually by time, of converting into a fatal disease the emptiness of the hands that watch the work flow through their fingers.. Hands that, retired, can find on a rope their only relief.

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Sarcasm, Sarcasm…

You will eventually conclude that I am unable to get attached: very well, very well… almost there! And the day will come — that seems evident to me — when I will no longer endure myself. For the conclusion is obvious: I see in everything ill… and I do not think I am too special… Yet I like my own cynicism, and that gives me strength, distinguishes me from the world around me. I wonder for how long… But what options would I have to my exotic nature? I say, I am already contaminated. Could I, today, in this state, say words of hope? Would I believe myself an exception? Make my mind a theater (how do I do with my relationships)? There is no way… my cynicism would never allow. I see in the others just what dwells and throbs in myself, so I undoubtedly head my list of the damned. With the difference, however, of conscience and sarcastic smile on his face…

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