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Coffee at midnight. An apartment without air-conditioning. J has put a Mahler record on; I seem to date women who like Mahler. Mahler has some kind of special aura for people, including myself; he’s one those artists who is a metaphysical system unto Himself. Mahler seems to want to cut wholes in the sky and drag down the divine; that’s why we listen to him. Our souls have been liquidated; music, art, poetry — at times — can help them congeal, solidify.
Covid is not a crisis, but an excuse to have a crisis, a release for the pent-up Death anxieties of a civilization which has erased and effaced death.
I see very little difference between good prose and good philosophy; ideas are sinuous, have muscles, shape, form — work as language rather than through it. We’ve made a mistake in pursuing truth instead of poetry; poetry is the only truth human beings are capable of producing.
