On Writing - a critical series (bs i say to my cat)
None of it means anything. All the bibles and porn, the shitty erotica, the smartasses who think they know what love is.
Its all perfectly useless. Clever shit to say at cocktail parties - something that makes us feel, not so alone. Secure in our ideas about life, but none of it means a thing.
”I love you…” that means something right? Well, if the writer had never been in love and these were his last words before he was to be executed… changes it a bit. So perhaps its all about context! Maybe that’s our problem. We get stuck in trying to figure out the infinite intricate 4-D context and we’re too catatonic ta live.
If only I knew everything and were right all the time. Then life would be perfect.
Not many people know that at the end of his book, The Critique of Pure Reason, Immanuel Kant just made a bunch of fart noises, but the editors left it out. The editors always leave out fart noises and the fart noises are the only acceptable form of context… according to me, the King of fffffhhhhrhrprprprprprprp!
