At last, a few moments to write. Moments, however, so far over the edge of the day, that the thoughts that arise in them (and from them) teeter on the brink of incoherence. Never mind. Let the incoherence speak. Let the more clear-headed among us assemble whatever meaning they can.
I’m beginning to resent this unrelenting exhaustion. I resent it because it makes me irritable and irascible—at least more than I already am. It takes so much energy to be patient and forbearing. I begin the day with these wonderful intentions, only to find them buried by an avalanche of fatigue. It comes in a steady flurry: like heavy gray snow, muting everything, dampening everything. Then night falls (the ultimate blankness) and I wake up with the optimism that is possible only through amnesia. The French philosopher Paul Ricoeur was right: happiness is a function of the skillful deployment of memory. Know what to remember. Know what to forget. I’m tired now, but I’ll sleep, and then tomorrow everything will be better.
I’ve finished my second Haruki Murakami novel in about a week. The first one I read was purportedly his worst (I formed my opinions first before checking the reviews, as every responsible reader should); the second is supposed to be one of his best and the one that launched him into literary stardom. Honestly, I don’t know what the fuss is about. The first novel was bad, an agonizingly verbose rendition of nothing-much-that-happened; the second was blessedly brief and straightforward enough—which is all the good that I can say about it. I will go on to read a third novel, however, simply because I have one. Where, oh where, has all the good fiction gone?
I’m going to bed shortly, because the incoherence has won, the exhaustion has won, and I left the third Murakami novel on my desk in the studio. I’ll sleep and tomorrow everything will be better. Perhaps even Murakami.