One tends to glorify the dead and thus walk among them.
I, for my part, spent the weekend nights in tears, cramps and solitude over my Orphean lifestyle.
I genuinely tried to enjoy the Russian opera in London on Saturday night.
Surprisingly my mood lifted lightly with the beautiful Russian costumes and the language. There is something very natural about foreignness.
In the year of cultural exchange between Russia and the UK I shall try to make the most of it – with as many operas as possible – although I won’t let my mythical studies out of sight.
Before the performance I sat in a bookshop directly in front of three shelves filled with the best poetry I have seen for a long time. There is hope for other book shops then. And despite that my heart still aches and sighs day and night I cannot help but to live on.
During the intervals they eat ice cream and even with the dim light one cannot help but notice the profound irony of a Roman style decor coupled with a Russian flair.
It shall come to no man’s surprise that Camus’ thoughts on philosophical suicide (so far on page 12) is a relief. A sigh for new ideas.
However, I understand their immaturity, unfortunately.
He talks more about what cannot be -such as knowledge/fact – rather than what actually is. The ‘Be’ is what I am after. More than speculation.
Although I may be fooled into believing his writings to be true simply because they were written with so much conviction, still I see their limitations, contrasting the lines with psycho-analysis.
Still certain aspects appeal to me – in his writing. Structure follows a simple scheme [sketch in my diary only].
He claims we can, one day, become conscious of what we are and this awareness of being human (also the awareness of others’ unconsciousness) only leads to either one or the other solution: death or … recovery?
What is recovery? Do we have to recover from being human?
I wonder what exactly makes these first 12 pages so immature. Perhaps it’s because it’s not interested in selling me a final solution. No case studies. No facts.
And yet again I swim in a familiar pond: with the truth and illusion sharing one and the same water molecule.
By no means I am drowning, somehow I have discovered to float above both – not for long, no…only people like Fowles stood above the Truth and illusion of their times and claims everyone made before them.
Anyone wants to found a Philosophy abbey?