“It is mere nonsense, of which nothing can be made: anybody who has written such a thing is dead as a scholar.”
O Academia. Fill the mind with information, distribute it for money, and then die. There is so much seriousness, an air of seriousness in their faces, as though it mattered, as though their ideas were full of life. What? Prithee note propriety: custom is a low-hanging cloud in which thought is dampened. Flee from these corridors, from these bloodless men, from these sanitised sentences, from these sedentary self-enslaved systematisers, from these technological minds. Flee from those who have no playfulness, no need for experimentation in their souls. —Souls: they refuse to speak of illusions, and they will speak neither with excess nor in riddles, as befits the fashion… Well, and so they cannot even speak, not of depths and heights, not of life as it is lived. And how? …How and about what will these clarifiers speak in the future, once they have laid each word upon the block? Present words, so long, adieu. I shed a tear for thee. – ; and each word truly is a present, a gift, an inheritance! O Analytical Men: test yourselves, not words. Wear what you have been given, and show, for the love of God, a little gratefulness. Have I been understood? Have I, what? Blinks, and—oh, it speaks: “Analyse…at all costs! Initiate clarification procedure, purge all contradiction, immanentise the eschaton!” What? God, my ears, my nose! From Christianity to Science: bad air has given way to—detergent!
Inheritance. Have you not learned? Great writings must be lived, and their teachings permit of no excuses. That is to say, they mean exactly what they say—really! How, positively how have you not realised this? All language is inherited and fades like a picture in time. Your words – courage, truth, morality – are hollow, for you have not grown into them, you have not filled your words with memories and experiences. Pardon? Come again? You deserve greatness? Why, because your words are the same as those who came before, because you “understand” what they meant in the past, because you have spent a great time considering their meanings? No, slave. Academia is a prison. Feel the unfreedom, sense it, taste it, smell it—or you will be where you belong.
Fatalism as it is lived. “I suppose there is much wrong with the world, and if I tried to bear it in earnest I would no doubt end up extinguishing myself; but as it stands I am pathetically inclined thus to spill forth in a froth of meandering words the bilious depths of my wretchedness. Pah! As though anything would change. O Fatalism… I can see no other way. This truly is Sisyphean. Well, I suppose that more or less does it. Nothing more to add, simply keep on rolling and falling, struggling and smiling, climbing and climbing, straining and heaving, laughing and wheezing. If I make it through this, I will have made it through the world, I will have surmounted all that can feasibly be surmounted. For straight in my mind are all problems, all of them, every problem in existence readily conceived and anticipated, as though I had swallowed more food than I could digest, whereby the stench and decay began to fester deep within the recesses of my being, poisoning my bloodstream and consigning me to bed. Nothing can motivate me now, for I know always in advance that it will fail. Hopelessness prevails: this truly is true. Am I alone in this? I cannot see a way out, and even the temerity of Quixote or Nietzsche’s free spirited pessimism of strength seem bountifully naïve to me. It will all end the same way. But what does that matter? Words are mere words, and writing is mere therapy. Alas. Oh, alas.” —Nay. There are problems, by all means; but fatalism is your problem, a problem which you bring to the equation. “But why? How can it matter? Your optimism is a lack of understanding.” —Nay again. Not optimism, but acceptance: acceptance that nothing will change, not in the grand scheme of things, but that like actors we can deliver our lines with conviction. “Nay? What, are you a horse? Would that I were an animal, that I could graze with conviction.” —Nay, my sombre nihilist. Not a horse but a man, thus necessitated to think—as are you. “But I know the stage and the script too well! I know that it is a script! How can I act with conviction?” —The same way that any man acts with conviction. In the knowledge that one can act with conviction, that there is a way, that fatalism therefore is not fated.