DayOctober 1, 2014

Beauvoir

Simone de Beauvoir was a French writer and existentialist philosopher. I think the most grand title in this world is that of philosopher. A bonafide thinker of thoughts. A deceptively simple thing but I think the difficulty lies in being able to properly express thoughts in a coherent manner.

“I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life. I want to be a woman and to be a man, to have many friends and to have loneliness, to work much and write good books, to travel and enjoy myself, to be selfish and to be unselfish… You see, it is difficult to get all which I want. And then when I do not succeed I get mad with anger.”

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“I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself.”

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I can deeply relate to both of these quotes. Anger is my pervading emotion due in large part to all my conflicting desires that ultimately leads to something akin to “want[ing] everything” … and all at once. This is a phrase I have used multiple times in my writing. I think desiring is okay – given it is sufficient fuel for moving forward. But many times it is closer to debilitating, this desire for all the things.

I’ve been spending my few minutes of spare time thinking, thinking, thinking. And doing less writing. Just being in any given moment makes you realize just how impermanent everything is versus monumentalizing it in spoken/written form.

So I am back from my vacation and while I initially thought I would write about it, I think recapitulating it as many times as I have, in conversation, has made me really not feel it necessary to do so. I learned a lot of things while on vacation for 12 days. And that’s all I’d like to say at this time.

Mostly I just wanted to get back into the motion of writing even if sharing words mostly not my own, but words I can understand.

Image Credits: Aphelis.Net

Inferno

Nothing ever happened to me, nothing ever would happen to me. There was nothing for me. The future no longer existed for me. If my days were to go on like that, nothing would separate me from my death–nothing! Not a thing! To be bored is to die! My life was dead, and yet I had to live. It was suicide. Others killed themselves with poison or with a revolver. I killed myself with minutes and hours.

— Henri Barbusse, “The Inferno”