We don’t really talk like that anymore

All this business he broods over, X tells me, all these confessional phrases he collects, from what, for what, to concoct evidence of his inability to what, he says, trial is an obsolete word, to sit up like a duck for my silent judgement, judgement what an obsolete word, for the father’s judgement and the mother’s kitsch, he says. Accept it already and move on, he says, we know all this. A word in your ear, we don’t really talk like that anymore. It’s embarrassing, he says, and how embarrassing that he should have to feel embarrassed about my embarrassment. He should have got over it years ago, of course, it’ll only end in tears, grow a pair, lighten up. Maybe he just needs to get laid, he says, maybe I’m right, he feels old already, can I find him a girl? No, of course I can’t.

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3 responses to “We don’t really talk like that anymore

  1. Monday
    How could I have written this absurd, pompous sentence yesterday:
    ‘I was alone, but I walked like a band of soldiers descending on a town.’
    I have no need to speak in flowery language. I am writing to understand certain circumstances. I must beware of literature. I must let my pen run on, without searching for words.
    What really disgusts me is having been sublime yesterday evening. When I was twenty I used to get drunk and then explain that I was a fellow in the style of Descartes. I knew very well that I was puffing myself up with heroism, but I let myself go, I enjoyed it. After that, the next day I felt as disgusted as if I had awoken in a bed full of vomit. I don’t vomit when I’m drunk, but it would be better if I did. Yesterday I didn’t even have the excuse of drunkenness. I got worked up like a fool. I need to clean myself with abstract thoughts, as transparent as water.

    — Sartre, Nausea (trans. R. Baldick)

  2. Monday
    How could I have written this absurd, pompous sentence yesterday:
    ‘I was alone, but I walked like a band of soldiers descending on a town.’
    I have no need to speak in flowery language. I am writing to understand certain circumstances. I must beware of literature. I must let my pen run on, without searching for words.
    What really disgusts me is having been sublime yesterday evening. When I was twenty I used to get drunk and then explain that I was a fellow in the style of Descartes. I knew very well that I was puffing myself up with heroism, but I let myself go, I enjoyed it. After that, the next day I felt as disgusted as if I had awoken in a bed full of vomit. I don’t vomit when I’m drunk, but it would be better if I did. Yesterday I didn’t even have the excuse of drunkenness. I got worked up like a fool. I need to clean myself with abstract thoughts, as transparent as water.

    — Sartre, Nausea (trans. R. Baldick)

  3. Pingback: A mess of rats | Notes for Nothing

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