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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

01:05

I fell asleep at midnight but my heartbeat was too loud, like the symptomatic pause before the actual collision. The strangest dreams are the ones that have all the literal meaning and I figure it out immediately because I’ve somehow lost the space to be subconsciously aware and pardoned in advance because of the lack of clarity. But I’m completely lucid, so there’s an error. The most problematic yet is relativity

02:15

“Everything is pardoned in advance therefore cynically permitted”, according to Page 4. But I’m completely lucid you see or at least I’d really like to think so, I think I know what I’m doing. I wish I were more appreciative of Murakami’s novel because it is profoundly honest in a mildly sensualist sort of way but I found his exploration into alterity disturbingly axiomatic (in language, symbol…) Then again, to me the entire novel is indiscreet, not in a bad way, I’m just not used to it. After Winterson, Vonnegut, Kundera and Lewis Carroll, and now Pirsig (whom I’ve learnt metaphysics through practical organization of papers so far), I’m more inclined to becoming simultaneously less and more transparent at the same time. Murakami’s more linear, almost like a throwback to reality although I don’t appreciate it as much as I would like to. Two things that stuck with me though, is Laika (however paltry her appearance but I think that is the point) and the incident in the ferris-wheel at night. The gravity of sensory-perception could not be more heightened then, for me. Still, I’m not too sure if he’s a favourite, perhaps in a different way.

03:04

Stendhal, Chapter 39, Page 131 : “It is, therefore, most important to control the imagination in…” Objectively, I keep myself occupied inside before I realize that the cold is getting to my hands and feet but it might help me fall asleep tonight, like a car indefinitely in reverse

What hath night to do with sleep?
Night hath better sweets to prove,
Venus now wakes, and wak’ns Love
Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,
In a light fantastick round

If not Milton, let there be none.

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