A Taste for Misfortune

“When the soul suffers too much, it develops a taste for misfortune.”

Albert Camus, The First Man

First it was an accident, then he fell into the embrace of words that seemed to embrace maudlin weight. He was self-affecting and lonely and had accepted this even though his dance partner for that evening kept laughing at what came out of him, as one cynical retort after another.

He smelled of her sex and it sickened him. Weakness in others made him vicious. Although he tried to keep to himself, there was no fixing what seemed broken in the heat.

As he ran each night, his needs for water grew uncompensated and his beliefs and attitudes seemed to cuddle a parched and broken body. He tried to laugh with her, but this event was deeply troubled. Since his father’s death he could not climb out of the well that was constructed in his lifetime by his need to be a man even before he was 10. He missed his childhood, where his mother and father were divorced at the beginning. It seemed that happiness was a foreign feeling, which felt as bad to him as corked wine. He was born on the hottest day in one of the most crowded cities, which borrowed water from the Colorado River and grew in borrowed time. He knew when he was in LA that it was his natural home. He loved how god kept it together despite that it was full of such hopelessness.

He loved critical words because for him criticism was his gift. He had a knee-jerk sense for justice, which in the end meant that whatever he said came from this mortal sadness and such sadness in the end is always wrong: People look to those who possess joy just as they also look for beauty.

He could not escape the mood that coursed through him desiring finally from his last days, where no project manifested the beauty he’d sought to create.

And this is why he always strove to embrace the beautiful, maudlin things that others wrote or created on their own.

All was not lost, where his love of words was a kind of beauty all it own. He was drawn to the most complicated linguistic tomes and stared for hours at the intricacies of Sartre’s, Heidegger’s, and Marx’s works, for example, which made him deeply happy because it seemed to represent the truth, but of course, he knew it was never the whole truth. For in the end, this deep application saved him. His hands could dance as his mind flew softly on the poetry of thought.

“By lasting, peoples prove their ethnotechnic genius ipso facto. And although the individuals within peoples purpose their own concerns in relative obliviousness, overarching myths, rituals and self-stimulations will create social fabric of sufficient ethnic coherence, even from the most resistant material…(Taken from: Bubbles by Peter Sloterdijk p. 60)

“On the way through the evasive underworld of the inner world, the schematic image of a fluid and auratic universe unfolds like a map in sound, woven entirely from resonances and suspended matter; it is there that we must seek the prehistory of all things pertaining to the soul. By its very nature, this search has the form of an impossible problem that can neither be solved nor left alone.” (Ibid., p. 63-64.)

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