Reading Sartre's Le Mur. Almost at the end of The Gerettete Zunge. I hope that the second-hand copy of Tristes Tropiques is still at the bookstore.

Wenn es sich um das Darstellene in der Kunst handelt, das Falsche ist, als ich es zunehmend glaube, das Wahre. Denn es geht nicht nur um das Interesse des Lesers zu wecken, denn das Wahrhaft ist jederzeit imstande das zu tun etwa wie man man ploetzlich durch sein eigenes Spiegelbild momentan ueberrascht und auf der stelle gefesselt ist bis man was darin liegt nach einige Zeit wiedererkannt und vielleicht was ein bisschen fremd erscheint womit man wohl ueberascht war, gebannt habe, aber auch auf die dauer zu behalten, muss man auf das Falsche greifen. Voila bien pourquoi Butor ennuit à la longue. La température de l'eau est la même que celle enregistré par le corps d'un baigneur qui souffrirait un peu d'innanition ou d'anémie. C'est le même malaise fait de tièdeur, de légères et chroniques nausées. Il n'y a pas le déséquilibre causé par les soudaines variations, et bien qu'on nous dira que les variations semblent annoncées, qu'on aura à les subir par ce que les symptomes sont déjà connus, les effets en sont davantage annulées par l'indulgence que l'on entretient enver soi même, mécanisme conservant intact le snetiment rassurant de notre propre banalité. Lisant Butor on est peut-être confronté à cette banalité exagerée de l'existence. On y entreprend de nous guérir de notre cynisme, comme de quelque chose de déplacé. Cure pour ceux à la fin de la trentaine.

Lisant le Mur et considérant le peu de valeur que représente son propre passé pour le condamné à mort, il me semble que l'écriture, par une analogie renversée, puisque qu'elle est privée de corps, mais pourtant sous la pression de l'organique, precipité du langage, lui-même porté par le souffle de l'homme, est le médium propre de la hantise, de ce qui demeure alors que ce qui est ne lui a jamais en réalité appartenu, ne lui a jamais été présent, lui est completement différent voire indifférent. Spectrale, elle n'apparait que dans son jeu de manipulation des dimensions qui se mettent progressivement à sa disposition, dans sa durée donc, dimensions qui, sous la pression constate de l'anticipé ne cessent de se modifier pour y répondre. Le passé prend vraiment et constament forme dans ce qui est à venir.

A pot of basmati rice is slowly cooking on the stove. The finale to Schubert's Ninth booming behind me. The sound of it effectively counters the insisting tendency of silence to establish itself around me, which is the best listening condition that can be imagined. The silence which is made up of expectancy and, as such, rapidly distilled by the highest degree of attention, of attention pitched high up by the expectancy, the silence is soaked up by the music. So that the music is all silence and yet, all sound.

In my small red notebook I set down the visual elements of the present without the least tendency to discount them (or their importance) for they are the ferment of existence. With time however I note my erroding(?) relation to them and the ever increasing depth of their relation to one another made possible by the breaking down of their original apartness.

Heated discussion with last night about the importance of making large allowances for what some call the shortcomings of others, of the difficulty in dealing with the consequences of their so-called stupidity. He does not want to deal with it nor even admit the possibility of accepting it. I pointed out the impass of this situation, and he, being or seeming pulled up by this, gave in to the need to violently remonstrate about my inability to be the simple listener he always it seems to wish for in me. I countered that this was exactly the problem, his inability to take people as they are, that he could not expect reactions from me wich nothing allowed him to reasonably expect. But then I immediately reflected as I am used to doing that my reaction was exactly the one he expected and wished for in order to remonstrate. This got him more furious, but at this point I saw that the end was in sight. Like almost everyone he wants to justify his coming reactions and prepares the ground for them. an old trick that is played constantly. The impass of will power. Its need to cast ahead and look in a future back to the present to insure its effectiveness, a bridge, an abridgement of all present. What freedom I have enjoyed since discovevering for myself and seeing confirmed at every juncture the fictitious nature of the conditions of all action! It was my long sought out way out of the ligh pessimism that was mine naguère. I see through things much more easily and thus I have more patience, indeed an infite reserve of amused patience for the called shortcomings of others which so frustrate G. Classic transfer.

Found a used copy of William Corbett's Rural Rides yesterday, something else to look forward to. Today more of AMRAS which I will likely finish and certainly much progress will be made in L'Emploi du temps.

Reading L'Emploi du Temps. Amras and began last weekend Two Years before the Mast.

I took an early (4am!) walk this morning which took me quite some distance over the mountain and down the other side into the western part of the inner city. No wind, absolutely still and very quiet, two lonely joggers. I was listening for the most part to Schubert's 8th and about a dozen Bach organ pieces (Koopman).

The first breakfast following wake up was a mixture of fermented oats basmati rice and very sour runny yogurt. expresso.
2nd breakfast around 8 was 2 soft boiled eggs, slightly fermend cornmeal and yogurt.
Picked yesterday a copy of Butler's The Way of All Flesh, which I'm looking forward to reading.