I find it weird that when people meet me they see I look and act like a kid, and that I know nothing of the world. That’s all I am. Yes, these infinite infinitesimals have me completely and romantically but I don’t like talking about them. I mean, you don’t either. I mean, your habits betray you right? …I laugh a lot I guess. It’s not “manly,” but oh well. (This should probably be funnier blah blah blah.) I mean, who actually wants to talk about Simone Weil and John Brunner? About how they were right about The Horror in the Lord’s Love Poem? When we could be making money instead, for ourselves and our future’s children (I mean, how much do you make an hour? A year?). (In the midst of life, we are in employment: seek, travel and print, seek-left-right-travel-and-bang as the Chinese typewriter went which I saw working when I was a translator in the Institute. // Les Murray, Employment for the Castes in Abeyance)
It’s all ironic in the sour run I guess. We’re all kids, dancing around the in-solution with that quiet old, fearsomely-boring, gaze of its.