currently reading.

Mankind, instead of being the central figure on the stage of reality, the rational creature for whom the nonrational world exists, is actually an accident, a late and adventitious newcomer whose life is governed by contingency; and the proof, paradoxically, comes from rationalism itself, from the Darwinian idea of evolution. Whatever may be the case with tress and stones and stars, man the thinker is a by-product, a nonessential component of reality, and he and all his works cling to existence with a hold that is tenuous and feeble.

El autor humano de estos libros no conoce en sí mismo personalidad ninguna. Cuando acaso siente una personalidad emerger dentro de sí, pronto ve que es un ente diferente del que él es, aunque parecido; hijo mental, quizás, y con cualidades heredadas, pero (con) las diferencias de ser otro.

“... vivo desde hace meses en una continua sensación de incompatibilidad profunda con las criaturas que me rodean —incluso con las cercanas, amigos, literarios es claro, porque los otros no son individuos con quien yo tenga que poder tener intimidad espiritual— y por eso, como, en materia de relaciones sociales, me llevo bien con todo el mundo, me llevo bien con ellos.”

Ultimately, she buys oranges; after all, you can peel them, thus palpably reducing the ecological damage. This housewife has tried to draw attention with her knowledge of poison, but it doesn’t help, for Erika has already walked past her, ignoring her. This evening, the woman’s husband will also ignore her; he will read tomorrow’s paper today, having bought it on the way home, so he can be ahead of his time. Nor will their children appreciate the lovingly prepared lunch: They are already grown and don’t even live at home anymore. They got married long ago and are now eagerly buying their own poisonous produce. Someday, they will stand at this woman’s grave, weeping halfheartedly, and time will then be reaching for them. They won’t have to worry about their mother anymore, and their children will already have to worry about them.

“Exploring a Notorious Novel & Film.”

Working: accumulating savings, perpetual anxiety not to miss any career opportunity, coveting this or that job, rushing the work, worrying about competitors. Do this, take a look at that, invite so-and-so: social constraints, cultural fashions, busy busy busy … but always to do something, not to ‘be’. We leave that for later: there’s always something better, more urgent, more important to be done now. Being can wait until tomorrow. But tomorrow brings chores for the day after … An endless tunnel. And they call it living. So pervasive is the pressure that even leisure carries the stamp of single-mindedness: sport carried to painful extremes, stimulant relaxations, costly dinners, active nights, expensive holidays. Until finally the only way out seems to be through melancholia or death.

What I mean is that by walking you are not going to meet yourself. By walking, you escape from the very idea of identity, the temptation to be someone, to have a name and a history. Being someone is all very well for smart parties where everyone is telling their story, it’s all very well for psychologists’ consulting rooms. But isn’t being someone also a social obligation which trails in its wake – for one has to be faithful to the self-portrait – a stupid and burdensome fiction?

"Ahora comprendo que no es posible volver a la era en que se hacía fuego con madera y piedras (como hacemos nosotros) porque tal vez la naturaleza esté agraviada de nuestra huida y cada uno que retorna a ella se ve objeto de su odio causado por el desamparo en que la hemos dejado."

Una noche se romperán los espejos, arderán las que fui y cuando despierte seré la heredera de mi cadáver.

Dios mío, [...] que no me enajene en la demencia, que no vaya adonde no quiero ir desde que nací, que no me sumerja en el abismo amado, que no muera de este mundo que odio, que no cierre los ojos a lo que execro, que no deje de habitar en lo horrible.