SO I’ve been reading a bit of the New York Review Of Books lately. I was thinking about subscribing. I’ve always thought of it as some kind of last bastion of thought in america. Unfortunately it currently offers nothing interesting. The articles seem like they were tossed off in an afternoon and were written from a template. There isn’t even anything interesting about its political opinion pieces. I read an article on a book of about Philosophy by Freeman Dyson. It was like something from Time Or Newsweek. It talked about personalities and anecdotes while dismissing philosophy as something that pretty much doesn’t exist anymore. The author names Heidegger and Wittgenstein saying that the former established Existentialism and the latter only wrote one book. He goes on to conclude that Heidegger”Lost all Credibility” after the early 30’s and sums up Wittgenstein by noting his tragic family situation which must have led him to write that first book. How utterly disappointing. Then there was that article published just after the election penned by Paul Volcker calling for some domestic austerity programs and to top it off there was a glowing review of the latest Spielberg Movie. I’m going to check out the London review of books and see if that is any better.
When I get old will I have to wear purple to get peoples attention? Will I have to have money?
Perhaps it’s already like that. Here I am alone in a room with a computer. I’m not communicating with anyone accept Mary. Do people actually ever talk to each other anymore. Does anyone listen. Why should someone listen to you tell them all the pain their in unless your getting paid or laid for your time?
I just watched the film Schenectady, New York and it made be cry. All people are lonely and grasping and destined to die. No one can be who they are or anyone else. The closeness you feel is imaginary- No that’s not it.
What is it?
I am afraid of talking to people and I feel like a failure. In the film the main character gets a MacArthur genius grant so he can do whatever he wants without worrying about whether their is an audience. He uses the money to build a replica of the city he lives in and he hires actors to perform as all the major characters in his life himself included. Of course it’s not him he sees as him it’s another person acting like him but then the actor of that character in the film(Phillip Seymour Hoffman) is perhaps playing the part of the director and writer. None of this matters really except he gets to portray a character from a lot of different angles. The character is all of us and you end up feeling like you’ve just read some french existentialist who can really talk to you. It’s a sad and intractable position to be a human.
Why do i feel i need to define things and think about them properly and sort them out on paper or express them in art. Where does that get you? what do you read after you’ve read Dosteoevsky? A book written without using the letter E? or perhaps one where the main character has no interior life.
In the end isn’t the message of all great writers that one must write. What does that mean? Perhaps writing a real book requires one to psychoanalysis themselves. So in the end they can come to the well thought out and personally experienced realization that we are all going to die alone.