Flitting

Why is it that I can never just settle myself with what it is I am doing at a particular moment? While reading Bataille I was thinking that I should be reading some Hegel. So I got some Hegel, skimmed it and threw it to the ground once again. Now I'm reading Rimbaud but I'm wondering if I should be reading Mallarme instead. And there's always the feeling that while I want to be reading Deleuze I should be reading Kant. There is an endless list of things that I want to read and when I start one I decide that I want to be reading something else. A pile of half finished texts litters my house, concepts that I've never quite assimilated properly and will have to return to in some half arsed way in the future.

Usually, after a few chapters of a text someone will mention something that's interesting so I'll be on amazon purchasing another book that will be eyed with glee for the next few days before my attention will be caught by another flitting butterfly. Books everywhere.... I want to read them all! I want to cook them in a big pot and eat them until I'm so obese that a forklift will be needed to lift my blubbery sweaty body from my bed, drool of words dribbling from my mouth and bathing in a faeces of concepts, and dump we in some place where I might finally be satisfied.

Never going to happen... but I can dream! At least there is one author who does not tempt me with pretty words and lyrical concepts. I am holding Proust in reserve until that when I will actually be moved by Proust and so Proust is the one author who does not torment me. There is a silence lying over him, as if he sleeps somewhere until I wake him, oblivious while the rest of the authors, poets and philosophers bang their heads against each other.


Soon my lovelies!!


Until then... back to Bataille.

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