and i'm lying in it

fuck writers who write their paragraphs like they're ships in bottles. whose insight is so fragile that it can't withstand the slightest gust of wind. they think that by writing a neat periodic sentence, by putting some words in the right places, they will at least give themselves the semblance of sense. it's really a sort of delicate tissue. this intricately patterned prose usually portends a very meager payoff, there is very little meat on the bone here. if it sounds like it was written to give the /sound of sense/ and that the writer then retrospectively attached some ideas, if the rhythm seems to be that of mere mindless /writing/ rather than of /thinking/, that is the sign of this kind of writer. Schopenhauer says that only thinkers worth our time are those who think in the first instance for their own instruction, rather than those who think to write and who write to earn the praise for others. who could disagree with that? because it seems that if we are thinking for our own instruction, then our motive could not be any purer. we do so merely for the clarification of our own thoughts and perceptions. there is no motive for sophism here.

this is not insight at all. this is a verbal throw-rug. it's a sort of tissue they've managed to construct from the meager resources at-hand material of their subject, and which they then put on top of their discussion. this is why they need to carefully choose their words, because it is poorly made and must be kept inviolate. because the pattern they wish to embroider is their merely for the sake of pattern. it's the throwaway at-hand random schizophrenic pattern of low-level mental noise and free association. that might be a little harsh and maybe even a little bit insane.
throwaway throwrug.


i find this is a particular habit of communists.

sometimes even thinking about reading Proust makes one physically sick.

There's this psychologist who says that people who are extroverted block out bad memories. If that's the case then I have absolutely no filter of any sort. I recall embarrassing experiences in painful detail. They come back to me and I let out a sort of noise like a man whose been electrocuted or something.