lettres choisis #711 (arides the bashful)


The bashful Arides
Has married an ugly wife
He was bored with his manner of life,
Indifferent and discouraged he thought he might as
Well do this as anything else.

Saying within his heart, “I am no use to myself,
“Let her, if she wants me, take me.”
He went to his doom.

(il miglior fabbro)

But what exactly did Arides give up in marrying his wife, that her, that other world that wanted him and was willing fukkknowswhy to take him? He was bashful, so probably spent most of his time in his room playing Ragnarok. Couldn’t he hack the loneliness anymore? The solitude?

We know there is something that eats away at the artist, Hank. And it is everything you said it was, an obsession, an affliction. But those are abstract nouns you use to describe a condition of the soul. Let’s get concrete, what the fuck is it?

I want to harness that obsession, that flaw, into the Juan Roman Riquelme in my arsenal of writing tools.

But how when I don’t even know what it is?

Is it loneliness?

Is it solitude?

Denise Levertov thinks there’s a difference between loneliness and solitude. That what an artist needs is solitude.

It’s fucking hard work to get all the solitude you want without getting lonely!

Generally speaking, artists do hurt other people. A lot. It is the duty of the artists to accept the fact that they do. Remember Tom & Viv? Lowell and his history of girls?

Because if you don’t accept that fact, if you continuouslydesperately struggle to make people think you are a good person who never hurts anyone but yourself, then you hurt yourself even more. Too much.

You don’t want that.

You don’t wanna meet your doom. Not just yet.

I think I remain,

Superchunk! Society!

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