c’était pendant la première semaine de novembre.
i’ve been in a terrible depressed depressing discontented everything bad mood for the past few days. i shouldn’t have written about LP. the man is a curse, i think.
i left a notepad/book at his house and it has all my italian museum notes in it and i’ve let myself start to worry that he will never actually mail it back to me. (it has other stuff in it too, all kinds of random junk, but pinacoteca scribbling is what i’ve fixated on.) (oh, i was happy once, in san severino marche….)
i can’t find a book to read and like. i came across a copy of the way of all flesh recently—i read it once and remember nothing about it—seems like i was about 17. seems like i finished it? at age almost 30, it got on my nerves. (samuel butler, why do i care that you were physically weak and not good at latin? and a complainer, too!) there’s no way i can persevere through a young man’s fancy happy liberated days at cambridge.
the great god pan sucks. and how can you write a boring book about pan. but it’s one of those OH MY GOD IT IS TOO TERRIBLE TO BEHOLD—SO APPALLING HE DIED OF FRIGHT—IT WAS THE MOST HORRIBLE TERRIFYING DREADFUL THING I CANNOT EVEN PUT IT INTO WORDS—UNSPEAKABLY SCARY. avaktavya horror. do you know what i mean, imaginary reader? the m. r. james and h. p. lovecraft i read was like this. and it does nothing for me. PLEASE SHOW ME WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT—I CAN IMAGINE LOTS OF SCARY THINGS, BUT I AM READING A BOOK SO I DON’T HAVE TO.
m. r. james is damn endearing, though. i digress—kind of—there’s nothing to digress from. i’m in a miserable mood and i hate everything and i have no hope for the future and that’s it really. even all souls’ mass disappointed me.