In a desperate plea—to myself—to be rid of precious essays written with philosophic rigor, I have taken to the fictional pen, hoping it will free me, once and for all, of the pedantic, the didactic, and the rigorous. I have written dozens of delicious little essays on film, art, language and some of them are pretty darn good. But I am tired, so tired, of writing in the same voice, in the same style. I want rhythm and profanity, anger and lust and unbridled joy; I want sentences that seethe and drool.
Nothing—and I mean nothing, not the kid, not the wife—affords me the pleasure, unbound, of being thoroughly enmeshed in a piece of writing, letting it inhabit all of me, at every second and in every way.
Nabokov, Borges, William Burroughs, and William Burroughs again, Houellebecq, and lots of philosophy—Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Deleuze.
Thanks for your comments on Bently Squeamish. Any comments I get are helpful to me as I try to develop my unmarketable skills and become more widely rejected.
Daniel--you've obviously got loads of passion just waiting to be written in new and unexpected ways. I've always thought that any good writing goes hand in hand with a little bit of real philosophy. Thumbs up to the favoring of Borges!