Michel

This is the kind of revitalising cold I enjoy the best—a windless day with the winter sun and Gustav Mahler in the background to ease the heat in the core. This is what I thought at six am, and by the time it was twelve, the temperature rose, and I sweated like a pig in my winter coat.
It’s not quite autumn yet. I’ll give it a few more days.
If you ask me what I’d choose between catching up with friends and writing, I choose writing. Catching up with friends would mean depressing them, infuriating them with my current view on things. The weekends are currently mine and mine alone. I spend 45 hours at work during the week (-5 hours for lunch), and by the time I get home, it’s almost seven, and I spend about two hours writing before I go to sleep at nine. It’s like back at school! Exciting? Maybe, I do like getting up at five am; it’s calm, cool, comforting, but the horror begins on the train – you londonic idiots know.
When I was at the Loafers Café, I didn’t realise that it was an open day. I found myself staring at all the newbies with pure envy. Also, I was hoping to bump into a certain someone, catching his Tintin posture. I was kind of testing whether I really couldn’t write in public. However, I ended up writing 500 words in two hours. Haven’t I told you that I’m a slow writer? Words don’t just come like that in my head, but a particular emotion, thought, or a tickle in the flesh comes almost instantly, and they all need expression. It takes time, for me at least. It’s because I don’t use big words like you; you aim to sound over intellectual and poetic. I’m no native English speaker, after all. I do try to be articulate.
Apparently, at work, I don’t articulate myself clearly enough in my remarks and tour reports. But I have to communicate with Japanese people from sales offices whose English are dreadful, and on top of that, they use tons of abbreviations (as they all do in this company) thinking that it’s smart. It’s pure LAZINESS. I condemn everyone lazy, especially in the use of words.
And they say I don’t express myself clearly…
For your information, I’m not depressed, just angry, surrounded by londonic idiots with nothing good in store; it’s either them or despairing newbies who don’t know their way around. But I like watching the newbies as I can compare myself with them and check who is better at adapting to the londonic environment. I cried a few times, too, until a few months ago, I realised that this icky place deserves no tear, neither does any place.
It has been somewhat terrifying reading Houellebecq for the past week. Although the book’s one year old, the contemporary contents were over-contemporary and foreshadowing. Pretty often, the opposing image of Jobs and Gates was presented with an emphasis on Jobs’s sad face. Then it took a slight Dorian Gray-turn in terms of art but in conjunction with financial aspects and a lot of relation to Houellebecq’s view on society, customs, religion, apathy/decadence and dysfunctional love life. I was just interested in the art bit and his indifference to unrequited love. It’s the first time I noticed that about him. He doesn’t give a damn, and neither do I. What he illustrates in the book is his own murder. And it’s not committed by the novel’s protagonist, I wouldn’t have thought so anyway. (The voice switches from third-person omniscient to free indirect style.) Although the protagonist is a male artist, I had to imagine myself being him when he meets Houellebecq at his house in Dublin. It’s no secret that I’m in love with the ideas and attitudes that this man represents, right? I’m not in love with him; it’s just that I understand the sentiments behind his words, which his detractors find revolting and obscene.
In terms of other contemporary elements, there’s a section where the protagonist’s father chooses to end his life via euthanasia in Switzerland. He thought the artificial anus was getting a little too ridiculous for the continuation of his life. I enjoyed the father-and-son story and how the protagonist, after the father’s “evaporation,” brutally beats up the Swiss woman in charge. I didn’t mean to write “brutally,” it was two hits. I would have smacked her up continuously.
Houellebecq, in the novel, pretty much depicts himself as a wreck, but a wreck that produces great words. Then he writes about maggots popping out of his mouth.
One day we’ll feed our words to maggots because there will be no one else that listens anymore. No detractors, no loved ones.
This makes me believe that even if you have enemies or detractors, no one will hate you more than you hate yourself. And it feels good that way. I’m not saying that hate is a good thing, but I’m not explaining it to you.
What was I going to say anyway? Yes, Switzerland. Only lately I’ve been playing around with the thought of going there and maybe spend some time there. They say it’s a clean country, calm and conducive, but it’s a country where they practise euthanasia and keep anonymous bank accounts. However, I just want to visit the mountains – maybe spend a few days in a cabin and get paranoid. It’s about time to say hi to the monsters of calm. I have to keep them coming to get rid of them. This is the course of my life.
To lessen your concern, I’m by no means J.-B. Grenouille. Him, I understand, too.
These men are not granted love, they just watch it slip or taken, and it means nothing. Not anymore.

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