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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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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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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“At what time would you have lived if you could choose?” — someone throw the question at me. Unprepared, I cannot answer immediately. Not even after reflection. I am facing the question again. My first impulse is to think, “It would be better not to have lived ever…” — but I refuse the idea, it does not suits my profile… So I think about the various times and inevitably I am led to think of the various places. Where would I like to be born? I think and, incredibly, everything loses its luster: I see only what would be unbearable to me at all times and everywhere. The precariousness of cleaning forces me to cut all the centuries before the 19th century. I find myself with the horizon crassly reduced. Then the mind forces me to cut everything that is between the tropics: rather the gallows that heat twelve months a year…. Then I see my big intolerance exterminate time and space. Am I that hard to please? so adefied to customs? I think about America. Great America… But even America presents me with a big problem: the American; as well as France, the French and Germany, the German. I travel from north to south, travel in mind the 360 degrees of the globe and go back two centuries in time. I do not smile, and I come to the incredible conclusion that of all times, everywhere, it is best to be where I am: alone, in silence, seeing enter through the window the cool breeze of rain that falls outside…
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