Old Old Words

drops from an archaeological ocean — to be reworked





I got drowned into it.


Drowned, drowned.


Mostly in erotic images,

But also so, so many other things…


And it will become more and more diverse, I hope,

With my first fire cooling down…




Is it true that I cannot find any activity

That I can hold in the long run?


It is probably true that I am absolutely unable

To find a proper balance between

Activity and passivity,

A middle way between rushing and stagnating…


That is the big thing.


I guess this, this bloody book noting,


Is the key.


It is the long run activity

The longest I have.

The most varied, the most diverse,

And at the same time the most personal.






Such a massive hurricane,

A tsunami!


Only in a few days…


So many reblogs.


That’s all what it takes…

Just be the messenger…

Just like and pass to the next person…


This form of blogging.

The subtle art of liking.


All things already exist.

You make, by immediate affective reaction,

A combination of your own.

A combination that itself inexists.


You make a configuration appear.




As soon as I am not in activity,

She is in my mind.


Maybe I am switching now…

Maybe I am switching from work to love.

Back to love again, and to life,

Just as I was when still a teenager…


With roughness and immediacy,

With experience,

As strong foundations.


More than technique,

More than knowledge.


Who knows?

How could I be certain?


Am I not now in the very process of ruining this academic thing…?


Is it not what I always dreamed of?



Stop meddling with those flat bastards, those grey brains?

But I love knowledge so much…


And, most of all, I love excellence.

I love this idea of work, of massive work, of incredible effort, of achievement.

It is impossible for me to get rid of that.





Funny, very funny stuff about Tumblr.

You could easily do it ‘as a job’…

i.e. do it constantly, very regularly, and with method.

Take blogs, read them through, select all the pictures you like.

But not randomly…


Classify things, with new tags, etc.


Do something properly ordered, although superbly foisonnant,

Swarming with things, ideas,

Multiples facets, many worlds…




I feared suddenly I could not

Get back to writing…

Because this ’emptiness’ – all this tumblring, etc. –

Would have dried my mind,

Would have transformed me into a pure erotomaniac knot,

A balloon of lust.

Maybe. But not entirely.


Could there be any form of, well, depth and height

In those new literary/cultural forms?




You could obviously

Pimp the design,

Up to every detail.

So that it is truly art.

(Although of course it would require so much work, and so much knowledge,

A craft that actually does not interest me so much…)



In any case…

I am writing, yes,

But writing what?


Writing, well,



Emptiness of life.


Emptiness in search of something.

Some empowering twist…

Some formal dubbing…

Something that could help me get

From this low to that far high…



I do not consider this writing,

Because, well,

I never stop,

I never reread…


It is forgotten

When it is done.


It is not really me…


Clearly, distinctly,

This feeling that this is going through me…

This is just as the instant’s as it is mine.

This is just some light, untouchable improvisation…


But since it is never remade, never reinspected, never reworked,

It is forever in the past, always already finished,

As soon as made, marmoreal.


(It is paradoxical to think that a text you rework most is the one that is

The most fixed,

The most eternal…

Whereas the one that is forever untouched, absolutely unmoving

Is the one you never even reread…

This one you leave in the past

As soon as it exists…)


(Yet I feel completely persuaded by this…

Profoundly, the only possibility

To create a true work

Is to start it,

And never let it go.

Start it,

As you would start with definitions and axioms.

Keep working on it,

As you would deduce, ever further,

From this chosen – even if completely obvious – basis1.)




So, now I work, again and again.

But never for this bloody thesis.

Which means, well,

That I will have to leave…

Which means that there will soon be an end to this recluse life…


Which means that I will have to get myself to work.

Do something to earn a living, etc.


The biggest problem, I think I understand it now,

Will be people.


People are unavailable.

Unless you live by them, there is no way you can communicate.


Or you need to find ways.


Maybe through the internet you can find people.

But I doubt you can find the right ones easily.

Many amazing people do not have time for distance communication.


They are too caught in their lives.


Well, but there are probably many others who, on the contrary, dream of that, and feel alone, etc.





I will be hard, in any case, if I leave.


Very, very hard.


Probably the hardest thing in my life.


And I might have in front of my eyes a seemingly impossible way of life.

No exit, etc.


Yet somehow I am a bit better than before.

I take more time for myself,

I am more energetic, etc.


I keep on believing that it is possible for me to get rid of those depression moments.



The answer is pretty straightforward:

I need a life where:

  • I love what I do
  • I feel able to do what I love
  • I am sufficiently busy, yet not too stressed (i.e. stressed to the point of losing control)
  • The material conditions of my life are acceptable (or good)




It is funny how in the present context the idea of banking is present everywhere.

It is interesting to feel the temptation of money, the ‘advantages’ that you get

(This lifestyle of luxury, this ‘situation’ very high in society, etc.)


It is also very, very interesting to see that despite that

And despite all those difficulties

With literature, music, philosophy,

Despite my inability to be anyone,

A writer, a composer, a philosopher, or any thing creative, really,

Despite this hole in me,

Despite my utter inexistence,

I keep being persuaded that this purely monetary way is not thinkable.

(Except maybe as ‘the way of evil’, where you go there only to experience the true power of money, to know that ugly and sublime life of whoring, depravation, outrageous spending, etc.)




If I really go for something more ‘pop cultural’

With more, much more blogging,

(i.e. images, with also popular mottos, and a bit of text)

And if I were to find some more interesting alive literature,

i.e. literature that does not seem the mere product of some mind, as brilliant as it is,

But also of a being in a thrilling existence,

All that with a music having the same characteristics,

Then, well, it would be possible to really re-establish myself in life.

Get rid of depression,

Get rid of stagnation,

Be energetic again,

Be creative


Maybe it all about being a bit more healthy…

Just be more healthy in my way of working…


Sad, sad, sad.


Many would say that it is now that I waste my life,

Not in those moments when I worked intellectually…

Intellectually, and I should add: academically, or institutionally…


I wonder.


I am lost now…


Truly lost.


I do not know where to go, what to do.


I have made so many mistakes…

I don’t see how I could not make more, immensely more…




I am horny.

In my head.

I want sex, I want those pictures, I want her, in my arms.

And nothing is really responding…

There is something weak in my sex of late,

Although I can still come often.

Am I growing old?


On the other hand, it is probably too early for that.

Probably something else…

Something hidden.

As usual…



I am writing.

New, for me, to write things as concrete, as banal.

Should I resist that?

Should I embrace that on the contrary?


What could this mean, for me

To go from the most abstract-depressive

To the most simple, concrete, and, hopefully, happy?


Could all this mean that actually

All intellectual, and otherwise ‘serious’ (even in the arts or elsewhere) endeavour is now…



Could this mean that I might not be able

To make efforts,

To strive,

To achieve?

(Not that I have been able to do anything, really, up until now…)


It would be sad…


Other voice, actually very strong:

No, on the contrary, what happens now

Is a profound reconfiguration

Of your use of self.

What might occur is

Some new way to approach intellectual issues.

A way that would not include self-destructive pain.

A way that would be more healthy, more ‘sustainable’.

A way that would associate effort with pleasure and



Oh! Here a very striking word,

Coming here to dialogue with me.


Instead of rejection, which was the case before.

Work for institutions because it was outside, imposed, etc.

To work for myself, work with inspiration, in the direction that I see fit.


It might indeed be something about self-management.

i.e. the value configuration in which you live.

i.e. when you force yourself, do you feel a slave, or do you feel a hardworker?

i.e. when you look at your life, do you see your own work, or do you see choices of others?




Thinking about her.

She does not answer my messages.

Because she always follows her intuition, her feeling.

That means,

She is lazy.

She will not answer if she does not want to.

(Both correlative: I would force myself to answer to things, because of the fear of people, etc.)


It also means that if I tease her the right way,

She will buy it in the second.

She will be sucked in.

Because that is exactly what she loves.


That’s what I should try on her.

I should do that, for us, for her, for me.


I should do that so that she gets to love me like she never did.

I should do that to resolve my inner knot, and be able to love, at last.


The whole point, is, of course,

To try.




This is the mindset.


Try, because you know that this is the only way.

Try, because somehow there is a hope that through work it will succeed.


Definitely, there is something in those days.

Something is changing.


Something is changing

In a non doing.

In a disciplined letting go.


Disciplined, though, is still not yet reached.




Proust, Joyce, Mallarmé…

All those guys that I supposedly loved so much.

I do.

And yet there is so much in them I could not stand.

So much that is really not for me.

And that, at the time, I could not realize.

I was too insecure, I thought I had to take everything.

And I got lost.

And I hurt myself.


Now I should get back to them,

And get repaired.




It does not solve my present situation.

I still do not have answers.




Opening Mallarmé again…

Apart from a few known lines,

I don’t really know this any more…

Or rather: I don’t see how I could get into that at all…


Is there anything in there for me?

Is there something that could interest me?


The difficult thing.

Maybe I just lack discipline…

Rather: I should learn to get to the inside of things…

Much more.

Learn to be more focussed.


Or I just do that,

But here…

And fuck everything else,

And, well, become really poor…


Bloody hell… this will not do.


And although this is some kind of work,

Some kind of activity,

It is truly not enough

Not nearly enough


No clue how to get there.



Where it is all glorious, profound, mastered.


What is to be mastered in the first place?

And if it comes down to competition, I clearly refuse it…

No interest in that.


Do I?


I wonder if there is something like a ‘delusional certainty of winning’

For competition lovers…


I think I know the thirst for competition…

I had that at some point.

Did I lose it?


Is it something I don’t feel now only because of some inferiority complex?






No, clear!


I am now in the fear of not getting back to work.


And I feel I should force myself.


But I also feel that forcing myself would be problematic…

That I am weak, almost broken by this past year.



I have this fear that ‘relaxing’ now means that I will not be able to work any more…


Maybe a classical fear…


The fear of the geek, the one who thinks life is only made of work…


Or just the fear of this disorganized one,

Who simply does not know how to deal with work and leisure…


Scared, scared.


I should write…


For the journal,

For the course…


I should get back on track,

I should progress.

It is clear that doing nothing won’t do.

Not here…





Remarkable, how little remains…

I had many in my head at the time.

All by heart.

And what are those that remain?

Those which despite everything

Are meaningful.


I have to look for meaning.

That is the key.

Meaning, meaning, meaning.


I have neglected that far too much.


I thought meaning was a given.

That since the figure was canonic, it was sufficient to study him/her for a long time in order to get meaning out of it.

That is not true.


Meaning has to come first.

Meaning as a goal.


Select things, select much more.


But how, in this new context,

Keep the discipline?

Discipline was provided by the ‘figures’…

The figure dictated what was important to work on,

And if there were things that I did not understand,

The figure gave the security that there was meaning inside.

I just had to work for it.

Work until I found something.

I found things,

But on the whole it failed.

Everything FAILED.


And it is, actually, a great joy.

Because it means I can get rid of this bloody method.


And try something else.

Try to be more intuitive, more appreciation-driven.


Yet again it was my discipline that gave me my success…

(Or was it?)

(Pretty sure of it… at least part of it)

(One other big part, though, was the one I am trying to heal, to recuperate: the love, passion part…)




Anxiety, this idea of not being able to work…

And yet confidence,

That this is the only way…

That this is a true way


Of getting to know better how to work,

And reaching a higher level of achievement…


Yet of course…

Those are the last years of my youth…

Achievement hopes might be soon behind…


And, well, it might be all lost already…




Bloody hands, so sensitive…

Straight away into tendinitis, as soon as I start re-writing…


1There is the question, of course, to know how to ‘choose’ the right axioms, that is axioms that work somehow. Because although you can clearly pick coherent and yet incompatible sets of axioms, it is not possible to have any set. Certain sets work, others not. I wish I were a mathematician and new more about this.


Lots of things to write…


about her and us,


about desire and relationship in general


about vocation and ‘career’ (such an obscene word),

about Work (œuvre)


She, and I.


But also co-support.

But she changed her environment.

Whereas I remained, more or less, in the same one.


I thought, as if I realized.

Maybe what I want is

being loved while I love more than anything.

I suppose there is the baser, more radical version:

being desired while I desire more than anything.

Probably something of childhood.

When you are completely dependent, completely one with the other.

And she clearly wants the same.

She clearly wants to desire and love like hell.

And if I prevent that, in any way,

She will go away.

Simply, well, because that is her profound need.

Yet, of course, now she might have undergone some change.

Especially with this context change.

New friends, better atmosphere…

This new mentor, that helps her a lot.

Makes me think that

I myself might be also in a position of change.

Where I could less look for a mentor?

Or look for him (her?) more than ever?

Efficiently, consciously and methodically this time?


I should write, also,

On some other place…

write on focussed issues.

Divide my topics, and when I think about one or the other subject,

Write in the appropriate place.

Could that work??


Is it even useful to talk about things?

With friends, that is.

Everyone seems to think that talking is best.

And almost everyone talks and talks about their problems.

(Really? Not really… Many people never talk about them, probably, or not enough…)

And for those who talk,

Does it help?

Does it help me change?

Does it help me have a better life?

Is there a way to get a better life…?

There must be partly.

With a part of chaos…

Big, big part of chaos…

Big or not that big, I wonder…


If talking is not useful,

Or not completely,

Other ways need to be found.

Some sort of ‘lonely work’…

This, of course…

But also less verbal work…

Work on respiration,

Work on the body.

But also something in the middle somehow

Not absolutely on the body

Where all thought is being extinguished…

More something about thought without medium

Thinking only, without direct verbalizing…

Or maybe more focussed thinking?

Of the kind that creates?

The kind of thinking that exteriorizes itself,

But with resistance?

E.g. writing a poem,

Not just improvising: writing with an ideal, with a constraint…

A lot is going on,

But only just a little thought is actually verbalized in the end…

(It could actually be the same with another medium: music, painting, etc., or even performance arts…)

(Any struggle for excellence follows this basic pattern:

Some amount of ‘production’/’impulse’

A selection, which only takes a small amount into the ‘finished’, ‘exterior’ product

(Even if this exterior product is the self, the dancing body, the comedian’s being-on-stage)



Deep, deep struggle.

And suddenly,



Of victory.

Very, very tiny.

But so important.

So immensely important.


All those ordeals

Seem almost


I feel more alive,

Despite the pain.

I need to go further

– but beware!

Going further means

Stay on this difficult line

This middle, equilibrium line

This path so narrow,

This peak you can always slip always from

And fall…


Her, her.

It is all about her,

Her, unique her.

And at the same time

It could be anyone else,

Just as I could be anyone else,

Just as millions experience

Every day, everywhere,

Just as millions of millions experienced so many times

During the whole course of history.

This is the most important thing.

This is true life.


And now I think about her,

And I think of seduction,

What if this love could awake the formerly impossible goal?

What if my next step would be

To reach real love for her,

And have, as a result,


Plenty of other girls offering themselves…

And I think of her mouth, her beautiful, lecherous mouth,

And how heavenly it is when I come,

How deep and strong I orgasm,

How strong I feel to belong to her,

When all my sperm fills her mouth and she moans of pleasure

And she swallows, and she kisses me, and she loves me, having swallowed eagerly.


Daydreaming of her



It is a huge question, this problem of “demanding” things from your partner (or friends, for that matter).

i.e. considering the other person should do efforts in that or that direction, etc.

I tend to think that the only real way is to be with a partner that is already satisfying (i.e. amazing), so that no change would be required.

Or maybe only small changes…


I tended, still do, to consider

That I deserve much more

Than I have.

But what do I


To get this better life?

How come this desire for more

Did not translate

Into any work drive??

This seems pretty strange.

I don’t entirely believe in work.

Work alone is not sufficient.

Too many people work a lot,

But don’t get good results.

Work can only be done properly,

i.e. getting yourself to work can be the death of you,

If you are not careful.

Simple: when you work, you invest massive amounts of energy.

If you invest too much,

And gain nothing,

You get despaired,

And lose a lot of self-esteem.

Typically my case.

But if you never invest,

You get depressed and also despaired.

(My case as well…)


Amazing night.

One of the most inflamed

Love mail


And maybe hope….

Hope: for life again?




I need to take control again.




But necessary.


Or maybe rather:

I need to be in control now.

As, maybe, in a choice.


The choice is self-fulfilling.

It is a beginning, not an end.


It is an axiom.

From which things can be derived.


Spinoza knew it well.


You start from axioms and definitions.


Then you make steps in the right direction.

Through proper deduction.






The question, of course,

Is how to achieve.

How to do.


Doing is blocked.

It seems constantly…



Doing is constantly associated

With failure.


I.e. all active endeavour fails.


Hereby my global passivity.






New thoughts on her.


  • If I give her attention, i.e. telling her that she misses me, sending her messages, etc., it does not seem to make her attracted, or even interested to me. On the contrary, it seems to be off putting. I have been a bit silly not to realize that earlier.
    • It is far better to act upon your interest, instead of expressing it. I.e. inviting her to do something, escalate for sex, etc., are actions based on interest. Writing declarations, poems, expressing that you miss the other, on the other hand, cannot be done in the present context (they are perfect in a context when the other wants that, even unconsciously)
  • Now she does not speak of the important things that happened to her (e.g. parties, concert going, etc., which I know of, unfortunately). She tells me about trivial things, things that you say only because you have to say something about your week. I can only conclude that those other events have something in them that makes her want to dissimulate them. Probably she did not cheat on me, but it seems to be imminent. What she did, almost for sure, is had flirty moments. She felt desire for someone else. Strong desire. The one she lost for me.
  • The best part of her personality, it seems, remained hidden to me. She shares what is her best interests with her friends (including the poor male friend who always wanted her and was not able to generate desire in her). I am actually more a toy boy, or this mix of the despising father figure and the sexy bad boy that has to be conquered. This best part of her personality is actually what I respect the most in her. But she does not think it possible. For some reason she hides everything important from me, and separates the two spheres: on the one hand her funny, cool world, on the other hand, this ‘serious’ love.
  • I have to tell her to stop pity me. It is unbearable.





I seem to regain some authority, some, well, mastery over myself.


There might be some hope.

I need some hope.


The hope

  • to do things
  • to regain energy
  • to find true achievement




The main thing, of course,

Is this goal setting thing.


This is the most difficult thing.


Just like the ‘find’ in the game.


The find is the hardest part.


That is why those who have it soon are so more inclined to succeed quickly.

Picasso, Rimbaud, etc.


This straight line, this absolute unmoving determination.

This focus, this paradise clear sense of purpose.


This is what I need to find.

A superstrongly grounded sense of purpose.


I have it already, that’s the strangest thing.

I have it.


I have it, but somehow it cannot express itself.

That is probably why it is difficult for me to find a way to become.

All the ways I see seem to me to be, well, impossible, somehow.

Blocked, etc.


There is always the solution to say that creation is not for me,

That it is an illusion to think that I might be a writer, or a composer, or even a philosopher.

Yet, yet, the ‘alternatives’ that I see are not satisfactory at all.

This can be thought about later.


The bigger focus, the real deal, is this focus itself.

I have to start with this and stick to it.

Just like a mathematician sticks to his axioms, and focusses on them until he finds some results, until he manages to make the next step.




This global problem.

This thing that when I ‘focus’ on the thing I want,

Somehow I block it.

It cannot be anything else….


It is the case for writing, for creation in general…


It is also the case for desire (the more I desire a woman, the more impossible it is to have contact with her, let alone more…).


I can see how the ‘cancer’ of writing that I had at college (not being able to write gradually ‘expanded’ to the preceding areas, like ‘not being able to study primary texts’, ‘not being able to study secondary texts’, ‘not being able to write notes and do preparatory work’, etc.) is also active for other activities.

For instance, not being able to do anything but this impossible thing I can’t do anyway: not being able to focus on my ‘side’ work (even if interesting, to earn money), not being able to ‘desire’ even a good job, because it is not ‘this only central thing’.


Clearly some obsessive disorder…




amazing things

much happening.

Discussions, anguish, a few small triumphs.

Internet discoveries.

Hopes and fear, for the future.


Superb observation.

What I write here I forget.

At least in the detail of it.

That is, I can recall when I ‘come by it’ again,

But since I do not reread,

It is impossible, say,

To ‘think about this thing I forgot but I know I wrote here’

And come here and find it back.


Most of what I write,

I lost, in this sense.

It is part of my space of thought,

But not particular

I do not hold it in my mind,

Just as I do if I want to construct a ‘public’ text…


Probably the reason why those ‘public’ texts

Are so hellishly hard to construct.

Because they imply

The keeping alive, into consciousness

Of an enormous amount of different elements.




Sent a request for some counselling…

Strangely enough, it woke me up from my depression!




Philosophical desires, again…

The triumph of thought.

The analytic 20th century, so immense already…


“Frege, Russell, Moore, Wittgenstein, Carnap, Ayer, Quine, Austin, Strawson, Davidson, Rawls, Williams, Anscombe, Geach, Armstrong, Smart, Fodor, Dummett, Wiggins, Marcus, Hintikka, Kaplan, Lewis, Kripke, Fine, van Inwagen and Stalnaker” (Williamson, Philosophy of Philosophy, p. 21), just for an example list of some thinkers…

Of course Bouveresse, Nef, Tiercelin, Mulligan, De Libera…


And the grand of the past, the usual list…


Husserl desire, strangely enough…




I quite like the question of the ‘trespassing’ of philosophical ethics in Badiou’s thought.

Saying that, for instance, Husserl’s philosophy went overboard when trying to make philosophy identical to science; or Plato’s, when he would try to eradicate sophistry and transform his philosophy into an ‘enforceable’ political system… (not sure for the formulation of the last one)




Now I am falling back. Into depression.

I can feel it.

My energy lowering, my inability to find an activity, the relative necessity to find an activity…?

(Or feel in danger…)



In my mind.

This impossibility to decide what is best,

The inability to act…





superb discussion

after party

incredibly intense moments

just with words, ideas

just with the dynamics of four persons together


all this is lost now


but it was, although simple, plain social,

a moment of immortality





And just as I am a bit stronger,

Just as I manage my state at last, and don’t feel this horrible pain and lack,

And act accordingly,

Just at that time

She comes back.


The whole thing now

Is to be just as I was without interest

But with it.

Just as I was when desire was dead

But filled, fiery with it.


Poker face, I suppose.

The only way…


I have to find something more.

Something which is deeper, subtler than fake.

Something of a true, profound way of being.





absolute emptiness


is it even worth writing it?


If I continue like this

I will end up miserable and ugly…

Bitter, etc.


Bitter or better, you have to choose.

I choose better, of course, as everyone.

I just don’t feel I have a choice, and that I will become bitter whatever I do.

But I choose better, yes.

I want this transformation of myself.

What does it mean?

I guess I need to go through the consequences.


Pull down thy vanity, pull down…


Probably, it means

Stop worrying about greatness…?





About her…

Maybe it is transformation, right now…

The moment I get to be more ‘active’…

She does not contact me any more.

She does not give me any attention any more.

There is space for me…

I could text her, call her.

Try to convince her to see me.

And she will reject me.

I will fail.

It is quite clear: she does not want me any more.

Does it mean I should not do all those moves?

Does it mean I should not become active again?

Thinking about it, the conclusion seems inevitable: I have to go through that.

I have to learn to propose.

I have to learn to desire.




But, of course,

Desire is only one face of the coin.

I have to learn to achieve as well.

Desire and realize…

Each of them alone is vain, both is reality.




a new line (hope not too much of a bother):
greatness seems indeed to be the only possible object of desire,
and yet strangely I feel to be good at nothing…
Confirmation today again: I’m very bad at reading, for instance, (lack of attention, of interest, difficulty to get in trance while at it) which, honestly, is not the best start for literature…
It has always been the case..
(the only moments when I would be able to improve it were those moments with absolutely no pressure, no stress, no competition…)

(which confirms the idea that you feel good only if you are strong enough, i.e. good enough)


There is of course the idea that you can become better…

If you work and work and work…

But the only place where you can truly work is the one where

You are stimulated and good enough.

If you are not good enough, it’s not productive.

If you are not stimulated, it isn’t either.


(It might be best if I did not come up systematically with the conclusion that I was, well, in utter failure…)

(Find something else…)






Deep despair.


Feeling of inability.

Feeling of being a shit.


A waste.


Yes, a waste.

A disposable object.



I am completely disconnected from this world.

I am not adapted to it.

Adapt or die.






That is because, simply, well…

I am not integrated… anywhere…

Not socially integrated.

This is the ugly thing.






What I need to do is,

Keep doing this.


For the next forty years.


Something like an exploration.


Something like

Both the possibility to get out of depression

And an unlimited flowering…


The possibility to write, truly.

Until it gets profound, big, refined, etc.


Maybe get some humour inside it?

Some liveliness…?


It is true that I am, maybe, too ‘serious’… in the bad sense…

Too… interior…

Too… closed on myself…


Everything is closed, yes…


I feel dead.


And I am now obsessed with her…

I want to contact her constantly…

Maybe I should…

Probably I shouldn’t?


I have this fear.

I know that every move I do …

Lowers her interest.

I am paralysed.


Maybe, well, I should do wrong

On purpose…

Either to break the vicious circle…?

So that she would reject me…

Worse of all she would reject me.

Worse of all I would feel pain in rejection.

Isn’t that what I need to learn?


I am not sure that writing about it would make any difference.

I seem to be bound to break…

Since, well, she has a better life than you have right now, and since you, in this emptiness, in this disorientation, are especially fragile.


No friends… No friends…


No one to rely upon…


And oddly enough, this is clearly something, well, that was the case already before.

Those friends, back in the days, are great, but not very supportive, it seems…

(Some of them are… not many…)


I feel this hole here in my chest…

The hole of lack.




All this lack, actually, comes from the radical effondrement

Of my values…

Nothing is possible…

Music, philosophy, literature…

Why is it not possible?

Because the practice is not sound.

When I read literature, it is not sound.

When I listen(ed) to music, it is not sound.


Sound, that is grounded.

Balanced, true, easy, natural, profound, etc.


I am fragile because suddenly I have no activity (except maybe the notebook, yes – it is indeed a true thing for me – but with the caveat that this one is rather open to the outside… it requires an object, it requires something else… this something else that seems to be absent) to build my existence upon.


This is probably the most difficult thing.

Not having any foundation.

Not knowing where I go, etc.




I should try to see more clearly the situation…




Sad… I read, (Pound),

And I find no pleasure…

In music, when I listen to it,

I find pleasure.

Or rather: I know how to find it.

I just need, well, to spend a lot of time on things.

To repeat them. To let them sink.

I used to listen to classical music for so long, and enjoy it so much…

It was such a freedom…

With contemporary music, it was immensely more difficult.

But I still managed to do it.

Always: through repetition.

Just like Mallarmé, by the way…

Or the ‘end’ of reading Proust and Joyce: after reading them for so long, it did not really matter if I read ‘new’ pages, the style of it was easier and easier to assimilate.

And yet…

Music was always more powerful.

(Really? Not a construction afterwards?)


In any case, it seems impossible… to write music.

Is it really?

Sad, sad, sad….


Everything seems impossible…


At least, I have to say, it is clear that I am a bit better now…

A bit better.

I managed to read a few pages, at least…


Two days? Three?

I don’t know how long…

But far too long, for sure…


Far, far too long…


I suppose one of the main problems I face is, well…

The fucking absence of good social circles.

One sure thing.

The idea that here it is just a monastery.

With frustrated students…


I should know more undergrads, maybe…

At least the undergrads seem to have more fun.

Fun. Always this.

This that I lack.


No wonder I came to be with those undergrads when back there…

And her… Her, her…

Who is in my head now…

Now that I start loving her, she goes away…

What can I do?

I miss her so much…

Or maybe, some would say, it is just some weird psychological thing?

E.g.: my own insecurity, etc.

Don’t forget you have not solved the G problem.

Not at all.

This was your dream.


Your dream.

Did you forget that?


Are you completely blind?

Is it your predicament that makes you … think like this??




The question of the activity.

What am I to do, now?


I don’t see how I could be satisfied with academic life…?

I don’t see how I could find a raison d’être to criticism…?


(The closest I get is:

  • criticism as understanding/rationality-based creation, in the same vein as philosophy, theology)




Oh dear, how I would love to be in her arms right now.







And I can’t seem to find any way out.


The only thing I can do is this…


Read is impossible: it does not lead to creation.

Leisure either, etc.


I am blocked.

My mind is closed, etc.


There is really nothing, nothing, nothing for me to do…




Interesting, my death ideas have a bit reduced…

I might be a bit more into life now than I was before?

I guess I need to be more, and more inside it!!






She seems to me like an animal.

In relative discrepancy between her thoughts and her acts.

I can only judge her acts.

They are clear: she is less interested in me.


Not a single tear, not a single supplication will do.

She will be implacable.

Without any pity.


Hence, I might, well… just forget her…

Consider her lost, (for now?), and try to rebuild myself?




Walk, in the night.

It is quite healthy.

It helps.




Rebuild myself.

I feel more destroyed than ever.

Weaker, weaker, weaker,

My mind sillier and more closed than it ever was.

How can I think it is the right way to go?

(Lucky me: there is none other…)


I still have those vague desires for knowledge…

But no energy at all, AT ALL, to realize them.



Have I ever been so low?




It is my low status

Which prevents me

From acting properly…


When I was better,

I used to have ‘higher standards’

In all areas of my life, it seems.


And if I don’t find a way

To regain energy,

To regain hope, and life,

I will end up miserable and bitter.


I have to find a way.

Otherwise there is only death…


Maybe, if I leave it here,

Maybe, if I work from 8 till 5,

Maybe then I will find a way?


But maybe not.


I feel, actually, that there is more, more to this situation than I want to admit to myself.

I don’t understand it properly.

I have to change my perspective.

First of all, for instance,

It is true that I could consider myself being extremely lucky.

I am, indeed.

I might be in one of the great centres of the world…

(Although, I have to say, I does not really… feel like anything…)

(Exactly the same when I was in Germany, for this massive new music event… It simply did not feel like the centre… A lesson that the centre is something more in me than I would think…)


Centre of the world.

True life.


I am on the verge of something.

Either death,

Or a complete re-foundation.



I might be in the best place possible, and I can’t do anything with it.

Is it not an absolute shame??

This is truly something which I should not allow.


I should start writing.

Writing for the journal,

Writing for the institution.

Fit in…

And start from there?

Knowing that this is not the end?

Knowing that this is only a first step?


I need to do something.

I do not know what.

This could be a solution…?

Write pages and pages and pages on new music, on criticism, etc.?





I remain immensely sad.

I wish I had a lighter life…

With fun, with social connections…

Something less solitary, less … grey…


I am probably becoming grey myself…

I don’t want that.

I fear, I fear so much to become like those ones, back there, in the home country…

Those ones, so frustrated and mediocre…

(I cannot say I am not both, now, honestly…)




The very, very strange thing

Is this repulsion for any real artistic activity.

And, since this ‘centre’ is impossible, or absent, or forbidden, or simply wrong (the wrong one),

All other activities (like secondary writing, other minor projects, the things a free mind would like to undertake) are also forbidden!!!

A global paralysis, dreadful, dreadful!


Exactly the same situation as when I could not write,

But could study, and make plans, notes, etc., and be very creative and active in that part,

And when this ‘impossible ending’ would gradually conquer what came before

And gradually, because it would lead to this impossible wall, this dead end,

Even the first creative moments would also be drowned in absurdity, and ‘die’…


And all work, then, would be eradicated,

Even if this is my central value in life,

The thing I want to do most of all…



It might be, and I think this was confirmed

In those rare occasions when I could create a little

(A poem, a short text, even a composition, back in the days),

That the core thing was criticism…

Difficulty in writing came when I did not see any end in criticism…

In high school, I could still think that it was just an ‘exercise’, some unimportant thing…

That it led to literature…

Now it isn’t the case any more…


At least I write a little.

But what for?

I write.

With some shaping…

I write,

and some rhythm comes in my mind…

but it is still nothing.

Nothing, compared to what should be done.


Nothing, compared to the real project of an undepressed person.

A person who feels (and is) able to do things, and who undertakes them.


Both things are difficult now.

The ability,

The undertaking.


(At least the hands are better…. I can write again without this care… It might come back, though… I wonder if it might become better with time… i.e. if my hands will be more ‘resistant’, or just more used to typing, if I do that very often (every day)…)


The question, then, is, of course,

“Does it lead somewhere?”


Is it a valid thing?

Or rather: how do I transform this disshaped mud into

Alive gold…





Oh dear…

This despair…


The thing is the following:

I seem to be able to understand,

But not do.

(And of course when this absence of doing becomes too threatening, i.e. now, where my whole life could be completely ruined, or so I think, because of my non-doing, my non-writing, and ergo my non-fitting into my context, then I can see how my understanding becomes more and more difficult to maintain…)

(Mad!! Again, an absolutely incredible thing!! The proof, under my eyes, that understanding is doing based! … hem… maybe not… They are two separable yet related poles… It is obvious that many times new directions of understanding allow for a fresh start in writing, just as formulating problems is often the sparkle that illuminates new spaces of knowledge, etc.)


Reassuring that I am able to formulate little paragraphs…

Dreadful to have to be happy with this… Dreadful to see how low I am, how very miserable my abilities have become.



I need to keep writing…




Obsessed by her.


Why? How?


How come?

What’s the matter?

Am I not going mad?


Should I not… stop this?




It’s good to write…

It helps forgetting a bit.


I wish I could find more … elusive… paths…

I wish I could get out of myself a bit more…

Invent things…





I love Dali’s way, for instance…


I feel to have put myself under so much constraint…

Constraints so deep,

A discipline so heavy,

That it almost broke myself.


Rha! Buddha! The eightfold path!


The application of this idea there is incredible.

And yet…

So evident…


I have to reshape my relationship with myself.

Not be harsh and brutal, as well as absurd and irrational, with myself.

I have to make more sense.


This is my way.

This could be the great thing of my life.

Find this new way.

Find this better way.


An interaction with myself.

Find a way to live.

Find an ethical line.

As well as a creative one.


Find a place in this world,



And maybe, somewhere,





I don’t know who I am.


I know I want to be great.

I know I want a grand, amazing life.

A spiritual life, even if in a lay sense of the word.

A meaningful life.

Or maybe better: a true life.


It is always difficult to discern the difference between meaning and truth in Badiou.

He would be ‘against’ meaning (in connection with his rejection of analytic philosophy), and ‘for’ truth (seen as something beyond the subject, something eternal, formal, the hole in knowledge… something insensé)…





great, great pain

thinking of her


no solution, again

my usual pattern


absolute fear



I should do something

to clear things out?




Funny, I am now thinking,

that this ‘indifference’ of hers

seems slightly similar

to the one this best friend of mine has,

I feel…

this feeling he would, say, constantly invite other people,

i.e. switch from a one-to-one drink or lunch into a more social one…

I seem always, well, a bit neglected…

As if he always had the upper hand,

As if he were always free, and me bound…


Maybe I am exaggerating?

Maybe not…


If even friendship has to be reinvented,

If even there I need to be alone,

Without any image…

It will be very hard…


Or will it?


Is it loneliness

Which is hard,

Or rather, well,

The perpetuation of old schemes…?

Is it loneliness

Which I suffer from

Or those imperfect, desiccating

-Ships (relation/friend)?


Same question for my ‘career’…

Is it the emptiness

Of not knowing where to go, what to do,

How to earn money (short term survival),

How to realize myself (long term),

Which eats my liver,

Or on the contrary

The remnants of old structures,

My current institutional affiliation,

This constant necessity to adapt to it,

To care for this future,

To plan ahead an endless adaptation?


Shouldn’t I do like those friends of mine,

Who ‘failed’, or at least

Did not really do so well

In their first ‘official’ formation,

And had a moment of wandering,

Maybe a year or two, or three,

And who now enjoy a new, reconfigured, energized life?





Still those dreams of knowledge…

Knowing, for instance, about:

  • contemporary developments in logic
  • set theory, category theory, topos theory
  • other mathematical subjects
  • physics



Fascinating, and horrifying,

How it seems that now knowledge has succumbed to market and career

It was so not the case in the time of Descartes, for instance.

Everything he did was… free, disinterested

He would never have even considered that it would be in any sense…

Profitable, or strategic…

He would not have thought it could be possible to earn money with it, or to get a job in an university…?

Or maybe my vision is ‘romantic’?


In any case, I do not know how it would be possible to find a place in this world…

A place where I fit…

A place where it is good to live, where there is meaning, where I feel truth.




The main problem is truly

That I am disconnected,


I do not fit anywhere.

I am alone – without mentor, without colleagues, probably soon without friends either…

There is no context I see where I could…


I see meaningless, ‘false’ contexts…

Places where I cannot involve myself into,

Places where I don’t see shared beliefs, attitudes, etc.

Places where I don’t feel at home.


Very, very difficult.

I have to survive.

I have to create the context.


I cannot rely on others – at least until I find them…

For now, it seems, I am alone.




Maybe the best thing to do

Is stop doing…?

That is

Allow for an emptiness to appear… ?


Instead of being fully and constantly

In the obsession of doing…

Thinking that only activity

Is possible…


Just stop


And think, or dream…?

And let work come to me?




Still this thing that…

It is work itself

Which is broken in me.

The impossibility to work.

This might be, well,

The cause of my despair?


i.e. if I were able to work,

I would not be in this state of absolute impossibility?


And now, what do I do?

I write en automate…

I write without thinking…

I write without working.

I write as a madman in a madhouse…

Without hope,

Without recipient,

Without goal,

Without effort or structure.


I write what comes,

What is dictated.


What is dictated is dictated.

There is no way


To come back to it.

To correct, improve or work on.

What is dictated is dictated.

And unless dictation comes for those three noble re-processes,

There will be this only one.

This plain writing.

Hollow, sincere, probably dark.






More and more difficult to contain.

Anguish in my whole body…


This should be controlled.

This should be mastered.

This is the real work.


One big problem:

I have no restraint.

I speak too much to others

Of those worries of mine.

I have not learnt to fucking control myself.

To bear the pain,

And start afresh.

I have not learnt to be serious

In managing myself.

In being autonomous

And adult.


This is the true work.

Maybe the only one,

(Hidden under those various guises

All those jobs and callings and activities…).




She, she is all over my head.

But I am really really not sure

It is a good thing.

The desire I have is elsewhere,

It is still the same.

Transform myself,

Become a man.

Get over my fears,

So that I can know myself,

So that I can truly love,

So that I can know compassion

While be in control,

Know my limits, etc.

Not just remain the weak coward I am…



I need that.

It is necessary.

It is a true purpose in life.

It is the only way.




Desire to learn,

Yet so broken, so interfered…

Desire to know maths and physics (and maybe other empirical sciences)

Desire to know more and more philosophy

(Remarkable chapters in Hobbes’ Leviathan on philosophical schools!

I wish I could have the energy to read them…

Why haven’t the philosophers learnt from it?

But of course since it is a philosophical assessment of philosophical schools,

Just like any other philosophical view

It is not unanimously accepted…)

(Funny: even if you say: “any philosophical statement you can think of will not be unanimously accepted.”, this will not be unanimously accepted (and this one, too…)… It leads to endless paradoxes (this one, of course, as well))

Desire to know literatures, and languages…

Desire to know the art of love – the art of being with the other…

Desire to know money and its flat world, fame, and politics (a little)…



Such an anguish.

Anguish that I might fail everything,

This anguish, old now, of dying miserably…

Maybe it is precisely the opposite…


What is waking in my belly…

It is challenge.

Stress, the same one as when I tried to open girls, when I tried to get past this fear of my own desire…

Because it is clearly this: fear of my own desire.

This is what I need to realize (and I bloody haven’t!!!).

I don’t fear them.

I fear myself.

There is this connection of fear and shame.

This inner tabooing of desire.

This is what I truly fear.

This is why, by the way, I have this fear only with girls that I truly desire,

Even if they are not obvious vulgar ones, or, say, ‘supermodels’.

It is far more than that.

Much deeper.

It is something of my definition of myself,

My being in front of the other.





This could actually be… good?

(Impossible… or, maybe, unthinkable… for now?

That is before some realization, some inner revolution?)


Anguish as this moment that precedes action.

Anguish which allows for things to be meaningful,

Simply because there is something at stake. Emotionally (and rationally?)





nothing in mind

no direction


everything stopped



there are more pressing issues


always this idea that the real has to be handled with

before getting to the ‘intellectual/artistic’…





And this strange, strange writing…

always, always…


the only one…


incapacity to do anything else…


maybe poetry?




Was it a good idea…?

To leave?


Shall I… come back, like a fool?

I would be really silly…

No: I would have lost all pride…




Was it a good idea?

Where to go, then?

Go elsewhere?

Where could I find, well, anything?




And this bloody ‘relationship’,

always on my mind,

like a big spider eating me…

there is no solution…

I don’t see any nice way of managing things.


Incredible, how limited I am.

Shouldn’t that be the area where you can distinguish some form of ‘intelligence’?

The ability to solve those kinds of situations?


Why am I so… impotent?

Or, rather: how could I become … wiser, or more… cunning?

How can I make the right decisions?




The force of a cultural canon

(Within which lie the forces of the individual figures belonging to it)

Is that it does not allow you

To have a choice in liking or disliking

Those canonical figures it contains.

The result, psychologically, is simple:

Either you leave the field, (i.e. you ‘remain far away’ from the canonical effect)

Or, in order to repress the part of you that does not like the canonic figure,

You become a fanatic.

Fanaticism, the mirror of grandeur and admiration,

Is then found around all those ‘unavoidable’ figures,

Shakespeare, Dante, Joyce,

And more even in philosophy.


There are rare places where you can be inside the canon,

I.e. knowing the central figures well,

Without feeling the oppression, without having to choose between staying outside

Or falling into obsessive folly:

The centres.

Those places where it is socially accepted, normal, even expected of people

To become the next generation.

Those places who see themselves as having inherited the achievements of the past.












Marc Aurèle



And then Middle Ages,

until Descartes,

and so many other things…



Is this desire for immensity just a weakening of the mind?

Just the sign that now I am old… ? Too old to maintain a proper discipline?

Or is it on the contrary, well, a just desire, a revolt against petty academic routine and silly boundaries?


Very, very difficult…

I wish I could hold the second one with no real doubt…

I wish I could be more … stable, more affirmed

Less dark and doubtful,

Less weak and insecure…


Always, always

This desire

To be consoled.

This is the real thing I should get rid of.

(Yes, you are now in my head, with your beautiful hair, your sweet eyes, your warm body to hold me…)

This is probably the moment when I need to become, well, an adult?

A beast, a wild beast, knowing the wilderness, the ways of the world…?

A prudent creature, knowing limits, knowing how to dissimulate oneself, knowing when to avoid danger, knowing also when to attack. Knowing to mistrust as well as to trust…




Completely obsessed by her, now…


Hope it won’t last too long,

Hope it won’t end up badly…




And what about my future?







You need to learn

How to control yourself.


You need to learn

How to get your mind under the command of your will.







Now music seems to have gone away

Simply… well… impossible, for some weird sort of way…

Or, maybe, a bit differently: composition being actually very practical, very technical…

Something that I fear I will never ever be able to acquire…



For philosophy, what I would need is

Willpower, hope, energy…

The ability to focus on certain texts,

The ability to write essays


I guess

The problem could just be generalized

As the ability to integrate a community

This might be the hardest part…

This might be the most difficult thing…




Maybe I simply need help?

Maybe I can’t solve my problems myself?


Yet it seems to be the only way…

I really don’t feel I can trust anyone…

Or rather: I feel I cannot find any convincing mentor





I feel very slightly better…

And suddenly I think:

Yes, this hardship is the right path,

It is where I want to be,

It is what makes me who I want to become, etc.

(Especially concerning her, and the torture of her indifference, and the doubt concerning… the continuation or stopping of our relationship…)


But this is probably an illusion.

The illusion arising from… ‘being well’…

The illusion that darkness and pain will not come back, etc.


I still need concrete solutions.

It is the only way.

The only, only way.




I am waiting for her

To make a move


Because I feel

Every move I might do

Will worsen the situation…


But waiting like this just turns me mad…








An unproductive one.

I don’t even work.

I don’t even read.

Constantly anguished.

Constantly threatened.

Constantly hopeless.


Until when shall I survive?


It hurts.

It hurts a lot.

I don’t know how to escape.


Leisure, maybe?

It does not seem to be allowed


This is probably it.

Allowing myself things

This is the thing I don’t do.


I am a mountain of forbiddenness.

A rock of it.


So ugly.

I hate that.

But it’s no use, of course, to hate oneself.

No use.

No use.


No use to ask questions.

No use, no use…


I am alone, like in prison.

I should be happy.

I am in a beautiful situation…

And everything, well, is forbidden.


Maybe it’s just…

a moment?

Maybe if I am patient, well…

Maybe life could be better?


At least, well,

I don’t feel this horrible pain in my belly.

At least that.

It seems I have to choose:

either having the head destroyed by depression and despair

or the body crushed by forcing and self-betrayal…




I might try, well, to change the situation?

Shit, shit, shit.







I should write about those things that are important to me.

Important in the concrete world.

Not only create an abstract bubble to pour my despair into…


Talk about

  • opus: this work only that gives meaning to existence (L’Œuvre)
  • the Other: how to meet her/them, how to be with them, how to find love and sex

  • money: how to sustain one’s existence in this particular societal context…


Funny, how, for instance,

Concerning the Game,

I still feel to have all possible tools in hand…

All the necessary tools.

And that what is lacking is rather this


Forever impossible.

And the same, almost,

For literature…

Or for philosophy, maybe…

This idea that it is only the doing

That might free me…

And yet I don’t see really how.


I am fragile

When thinking about her.

She is indifferent now, more and more.

And I am, therefore, more and more fragile…

But the Game goal,

To transcend myself,

Have a better life,

Be courageous,

Live outrageously,

Live superhumanly

This goal still exists.

Although darkened, or softened…

Lost in some mist…

So on the one hand it might be that…

If I were to find a solution to the Game problem,

She would really become a friend,

And the questions of attraction, of relationship, etc.,

Would be solved by that only…

Or on the contrary it is towards her that I need to turn my soul…

And the Game is really an illusion.


Feeling lost,

Feeling empty.

Of course.

Ezra Pound,


Yet the desire for science, for philosophy.

Be a poet only might be,


Too restrictive.

Everything is too restrictive.

Everywhere is too small.


Now I should try to work.

Or try to read.

Or try to analyse.

Or try to make notes.

Or try to organise myself.

Or try to think of solutions…

And write them down.

Or try to tackle concrete problems,

Instead of this very abstract recirculation/perlaboration.

Maybe, maybe not.

No answer,


Ever, ever, ever.

Something still dictates,

If I listen.

Something that might stress my hands,

Tend them till -initis.

Hopefully not.

I still love being there.

In front of the screen.

People hate that.

People hate the soft click of keys.

People are nostalgic of pens.

But pens are beautiful,

And keys.

And one is young, and the other old.

And both might grow until their difference shall not be remembered.

One is painting,

One is photography,

(Of course).


What shall I read?

Plato, Parmenides,

Badiou, Conditions, Petit traité d’ontologie transitoire,

Lewis, On the Plurality of worlds,

Descartes, Règles pour la direction de l’esprit


That is what I might read now.

And then, later in the night,

Homer, Virgil, Milton, Joyce, Pound,


I see two youngsters coming and going.

Smart, dressed up.

Fine, fine legs,

That you may never fuck.

Is it legitimate to read,

If you are a loser?

Is it legitimate to scholarize yourself,

If your cock is weak and weeded out?

Is it good to perpetuate this everlasting cliché,

The loser reads and thinks, because he cannot tread the winner’s path, fuck the hotties,

Reach superficiality?

L’important, c’est la surface, says Deleuze.

Surface, that would be: fuck, spend, win.

Have fun.

Now I am rather torn in anguish…

About her.

About an artistic or intellectual realization.

About financial possibilities.

About growing old.



Am deeper into despair

Than before

Or less?

Difficult to even know that..

It seems that life recompenses

Ambition and


Don’t I lack that to the highest degree?

Don’t I lack that more and more?

Or maybe not…

There are other signs.

I read more,

I am more aware of my interests…

I feel globally freer inside…

But my surroundings might become more difficult to accommodate.


superbe incapacité à lire…

l’esprit est bloqué…

angoissé et déprimé…

aucun élan, aucun étincelle…

une fatigue classique:

celle de l’inactivité…

celle de l’insécurité…

elle, elle, elle, elle: qui me tourmente,

par qui je me laisse tourmenter?

elle: lui fais-je seulement confiance?

aucune certitude…

je la crois plus inconstante, plus inconsciente qu’elle ne le dit.

je la crois possible de profondes contradictions…

non pas d’un mal voulu, d’un désir de mal (même si en fantasme bien évidemment),

mais d’une sorte de glissement… de quelque chose où elle se laisse aller, et se retrouve dans la situation…

ce que moi j’aurais vécu, en fait, de mon côté, si j’en avais eu l’occasion…

ce que moi j’aurais sûrement fait…

je suis puni pour les choses précisément dont je suis coupable…

peut-être…? …

aucune certitude…

juste une mollesse…

une ignoble mollesse…

quel ennui, quel dégoût d’être ainsi…


a few pages, and the attention falls again…

I feel rusted,

But rather … a-rusted, anti-rusted…

So slimy, so soft…

How on earth could I change, and get into some other frame?

Change my body?

Change my schedule…

Do something!

But, as usual, it is only words…

Words, words, words…

My thought is like a citadel…

Besiege by an endless bodily/material swamp.

I cannot get out of my mind.

I cannot make my dreams get outside.

If they do, they drown, they get killed.

That is my feeling, or my belief?

That is my experience…


Fantasy on this Zürich golden boy,

So full of absolute chicks,

Fucking supermodels,

Juggling with millions.

I can’t be disgusted.

Not now, in this night of impossible study,

Of constant mediocrity,

Of self-contempt.

It is not possible not to dream about it.

Is it because I am totally weak?

Is it because I am rotten, some silly male monster?


I wish I could find either some ‘cure’ against that,

Which would make the desire vanish,

Or some power within me

That would allow me to materialize this dream.

Let it out, so that I can think about something else…

Evolve, be more, be after it.

In other words, become, and not stagnate.


Obviously the main problem

Being bereft from any community

Being alone

Or nearly so: having only superficial, unimportant relationships…

That is when you need your strength.

Psychological strength.

That is when you need to be really determined.

That is when the attacks of Despair and Anguish will be the most



Where Night shall be at its darkest.

This is now the moment – or maybe… this is just before the moment, if (probably) worse times come –

To see if I am able.

If I am strong enough.

I have spent my life abandoning.

Dreary fate.

I need to change that.


Not being able to force myself properly:

Force myself until the goal is reached.

This is the only way to do great things.

The only way.


If you are not capable,

Then there is

Mediocrity, or


Simple, simple.

(As usual,

In the detail,




I write a little.

Not much.

Compared to that period,

A week ago.

But more than those past days.

Not bad.

Maybe a little hope.



For sure.

That can only be that.


No energy,

No hope,

No future,

(no present almost no past),

No engagement,

No strength/power,

And probably just growing silliness.


Instead of flying all the time.

I should be trying.

And how, and how?

Failing is such a stupid fear.

Stupid because illusory, small, futile.

Funnily enough,

At least,

Fear of failure,

Seems far away,

Here in this brute page brushing…

Too high a view of literature

Followed by …

la fange


At least now I feel a bit of anxiety…

The stress before the open.

If she is not the solution, if she does not want me, if our relationship was too imperfect, and should not be continued…

Then I should try going to meet other girls…

Try stop fearing them.

Try with this cute shy one that I see from time to time…

Who is here now, close.


Bad literature is always sincere, wrote the great dandy (a doubt).

It is indeed out of literature that I am now.

Every time I try to get inside some field,

It fails. Miserably.

Maybe, if I kept writing there, on those lost pages,

Maybe, in ten or twenty years,

I would, well, reach this insincerity?

Or simply: a sincerity which is not seen by others,

Because it is … refined, worked through…

Because it has become a voice itself, not just the showing act of a part of the world…

Maybe, maybe, maybe.


Fantasy, still, always,

On absolute excellence.

Fantasy on supermodels, for instance.

The sublime apex of the body.

The ‘most’ sexual.

But just as for everything of the top,

Like shoes,

Like geniuses in the canon,

It being excellent does not mean

That you love it.

Most ones in the canon, for instance,

Are probably without real interest for one’s specific sensitivity.

And some non canonized might be more directly ‘close’ to us.

Just like one might prefer hanging out with ‘less intelligent’ people,

Because the emotional contact is better…


Maybe not.

In music it was never the case.

In music, when I listened to it with love, with freedom,

In music I really appreciated the geniuses.

The canon was (and still is) true, authentic.

Without any obligation in it.

My assimilation process was easy, slow but unstressed.


Maybe that is the thing.

I am constantly stressed.

This is the death of all creativity,

Of all personal project, of all personality.

Stress… (bad stress… if you are well, good stress is what you crave…)


A little bit…

Again: without any constraint,

without any idea.

Write: but be a bit sad,

Write: and see how hollow it is.

The world, its anguish

(go talk to the cute girl,

confront my very imbalanced/dying relationship,

manage my material security, my future,

find an intellectual/artistic way),

Are a bit further away…

The world disappears a little…

A know in the belly remains,

Not the dire pain of this past year…

Just a bit of anguish.

Anguish… that something of my desire might actually …

Get realized…

In going to this cute creature, engage in a dialogue…

Do something,

Do this thing I never dare to do…

Do the real work

Confront your desire.

Be brave for once…

Stop being weak?

Maybe not even…

Just do the thing, while weak…

Don’t try to change yourself…

Just do it…



I lost myself in knowledge…

Knowledge isn’t nothing,

It is not-enoughness…

Knowledge is necessary not-enoughness…


One more occasion lost.

We went outside for a small pause,

With this friend,

And she went home at that time,

And I did nothing

(“I am with this friend, I can’t do a thing, etc.”).

Clearly, clearly wrong.

I should have done something.

(Now the only work is get rid of guilt

and try to find something which might get me to do something else next time… i.e. not nothing…)


Subtle pleasure of writing…

Subtle activity,

Subtle light in the mind.

Or maybe just… well…

Night advancing…



La question du faire…



There is always something getting me out of it.


This is remarkable.


A key, maybe.


There is a subjective feeling of unworthiness.

i.e. “It leads nowhere”, or “It does not give any results” or “It really is a waste of time”, etc.


Strangely enough, it is wholly possible for me to do this, the notebook,

Without any real problem with it (i.e. I can keep on doing it for a long time)

Despite my dissatisfaction (it is not really giving any result)…


The question, then, is the following:

is it only a question of ‘how’? Of method?

(Psycho-physical method, that is… : a feeling of freedom, a regular pace, probably many other parameters I do not master…)

That is, if I were ‘able’ to transpose the method to, say, my Dphil, I would be able to work on it without all those impossibilities, etc.



It might be that the problem is actually more ‘profound’…

For instance, because of the mode of the activity…

There something very loose about this one…

Something you cannot get in academic writing…

Something you probably cannot get in literature or poetry either.


In this sense, it is rather because I need an activity of this kind that I do this, and not other ones.

It would be what I can do now, instead of what I would ‘want’ to do.


But one sure thing: I have never really wanted to do academic stuff (at least in what I have known of the humanities)…


My problem is rather: what would be life now?


It might be that actually I am just a coward.

The only answer should be: just go out there, leave, with the knowledge that there isn’t any prefabricated way.


If you wait for the way to appear, it is not going to happen.

You need to be in the real, forced to make your way

Forced to create your world.


But of course this would be very, very harsh.


Fantasies on painters:

Pierre Soulages,

Gerhard Richter,

Francis Bacon,


And of course Rothko, Klein, etc.


I really don’t know art so well…


Again this idea of freedom.

Being able to be universal, in some way.

Do what you want, even if in a disciplined and strong frame, but do things with freedom




Just a thought.

Meillassoux really constructs an argument.

More than Badiou does, it seems.

Very often, in this ‘classical’ manner, Badiou does readings (of math, of philosophers). Readings which have an amazing richness, etc.

But usually the affirmed points are not argued. The opposite positions are presented, and after that there is only a choice. The choice of your philosophical orientation.


This choice seems to be supposed irreducible… Or is it?


There is truly this ‘non-argued’ way of exposing ideas.

It might be the object of a relatively large study.

(Since obviously there are arguments in Badiou… it might be a matter of how they are used, and when)


Quoi qu’il en soit, it is one more way of acknowledging that Meillassoux, without saying it, never, is going in the direction of analytic philosophy.

The line Badiou-Meillassoux is going back towards what the analytic philosophers never ‘left’.

It might be that in ‘rejoining’ the more ‘analytical’ ethos of argumentative methods, this trend of philosophy will have much to contribute, and might even change the course of Anglo-American philosophy.

It might be, it might not. It is actually not very probable.




Armstrong, Lewis, etc.

Always slightly depressive to try approaching them.

I don’t really know why…

It just is that way…


And the question of what you do in your life is always present…

Always, always…


The combination of absolute ambition and ‘bereftness’ (not being fully central/integrated in any field) results in this obsessive notebooking.

Where nothing lies (but shadowy wandering, etc.)

Shall I become absolutely Amiellian?

Shall I find a way out?


The question of women, in Amiel, is also abominable. Absolutely frustrated, incapable of getting to any… And closing himself into rejecting them (through the construction of an absolute ideal) rather than doing anything

That is not what I do, at least.

I am just above that in terms of sickness…

Just a bit sounder…

But it might be only because I am young, still… (vaguely young, almost not young anymore)

I can see myself drowning into this horrible future…

An Amiellian future…

Or a Leirissian one (as horrible… such a waste, such a loser, this man… dreadful. So depressed all the time, so clumsy and wrong with women, so dissatisfied with his work… dreadful, dreadful…)


Should I try to work on ‘positive’ models?

Models of non-depressive, i.e. healthy, happy and yet grand people?

Or at least, I don’t know, action-oriented people, or … simply ‘not wasted’ people?

Who would that be…?

In literature there are clearly examples.

From the Greeks and Romans onwards, there are plenty.

Virgil, say, of course, and Horace…

Dante, Shakespeare…

Actually it might be that it is really only through an immense ‘success’ – i.e. activity instead of meditation, social integration instead of seclusion, etc. – that the really fabulous masterpieces get produced…


This would actually be the true revolution.

Being able to find a model of a true fulfilled, successful life with canonicity.

That might be the whole question, the whole problem.


But for that I need what? I need a reconfiguration of role models.

Meaning, really, an overthrow of my inner romanticism (of which the latest form is modernism, with postmodernism being a yet relatively failed attempt to get out of it).

Cf. Taruskin, cf. Badiou.


It seems, once again, that it is towards the States that I should direct my gaze.

Although Houellebecq is probably one very clear example of this phenomenon in France.




Maus comic.

Radical ‘dichotomy’ between the evil ones and the victims (despite the lousy end with the jew uncle… racist against Afro-Americans…).


The whole question, the importance of the question only arises if you consider the mixture of sameness and difference.

Nazis and Jews are different, (although the difference is slippery, ergo the endless ‘chasing’ for absolute purity, etc.), hence the possibility of massacre. It seems difficult to envisage that people might attempt to organise a ‘genocide’ ideology if they cannot find any ‘criteria’ of distinction. ‘Jew’ was this criteria, although, again, the thing was slippery (Gypsies as well, and everything that was ‘unter’… It might be that if Nazi regime had continued, there would have been more and more ‘unter’ sub-populations, a bit like the question of the ‘party enemies’ in Soviet Russia?).

Yet Nazi and Jews are the same, both human. If it was not the case, e.g. in the case of a ‘human vs. alien’ scenario, it is no big problem to eradicate evil: the oppressors, the aliens, are entirely evil, and a ‘legitimate’ genocidal gesture can be envisaged (cf. lousy Independence Day, where the end triumph is actually the eradication of the eradicators).


The horror lies in those two aspects: the irruption of vague distinctions (‘jew’, but of course many other criteria would do) within a globally same community (humans). Meaning that the possibility of this evil is intrinsically human. It can occur in human societies, and we don’t know in which ones, or how exactly it starts, etc.


The presence of evil is here, within.




Total blockage.

Impossibility to do.

Absolutely lost.

I don’t know what to do.

Where to invest my energy…



Every path is shut.


Or maybe this is the kind of thinking that shuts everything?





Encore, encore.

Marre « d’avancer ».

De faire et faire encore ces lectures qui ne mènent à rien.

Mènent à rien : qui ne changent rien, malheureusement, à la réalité présente…

C’est cette réalité qu’il faut changer.

C’est ça le centre de toute l’affaire.

Il n’y a pas d’autre moyen.

C’est là que se trouve l’énergie, c’est là que se trouve le renouveau du soi, le changement.

Tant que les conditions matérielles de vie sont toujours là, je ne vois aucune possibilité effective de changement.

Et qu’est-ce que ça serait, alors, cet autre contexte… ?

Qu’est-ce que ça pourrait bien être ?

Difficile, difficile à dire.

Impossible, même, je dirais, à le dire.

Du moins je ne vois rien.

Je vois les quelques détails de la vie de Schubert que je connais me sauter à l’esprit.

Pauvre, errant d’ami en ami pour un logement, etc.

Une vie difficile…

Je n’aurais pas tellement envie de ça.

Peut-être est-ce vers cela que je me dirigerais si je quittais cet endroit ?

Mais en même temps, diable…

Je ne vois rien. Mon temps ici est compté.

Je ne sais vraiment pas ce que je pourrais faire…

Il me manque peut-être juste…

Cet optimisme… ?

Ce courage ?

Cette insouciance ?

Comment en suis-je arrivé à ce puits… de peur??

Tout à fait étrange.

Je suis maintenant à peu près incapable de travailler (au sens vrai du terme)…

Incapable de faire.

Incapable d’aucune action réellement marquante

Incapable d’aucun élan, d’aucun focus

Incapable d’avoir un rêve et de tenter activement, intensément de le réaliser…

Le rêve est toujours là…

Rêve évident, rêve de grandeur, de gloire, d’aventure, d’un certain bonheur (dans une version… sublime, sans doute)…

Mais à part le rêve, qu’y a-t-il ?

Quelle possibilité de réalisation ?

Une vie bibliothécaire…

De solitude…

Une vie où il est presque impossible de nouer contact avec l’autre…

Une vie où il n’est pas non plus possible de survivre…

Une vie rongée par la peur de la compétition, par la faiblesse, etc.

Quelle idiotie, tout cela…

Profonde idiotie.

Y a-t-il une solution ? Une solution, une vie meilleure ?

Qui serait riche, forte, belle, glorieuse ?

Pourquoi, dans des conditions matérielles telles que celles-ci, sans ‘problème’ apparent,

Pourquoi dans ces conditions tout est tellement vide, tellement impossible, etc. ?

Peut-être que le seul problème serait… le fait que je ne ‘résous’ pas la question de l’intégration matérielle à mon contexte ?

I.e. Que je n’écris pas, et donc que je suis constamment en porte-à-faux avec l’institution, etc.

C’est sans doute cela qui pose problème…

Quelle pourriture…

Quelle situation idiote…

Impossible, je crois de se sentir plus dans un cul-de-sac.


C’est vraiment complètement absurde…

Lire de la philosophie ? Je ne suis pas assez bien… ce pourrait venir, bien sûr…


Mais dans quel but, dans tous les cas ?

Il faudrait changer de branche… ?

La morsure de la solitude.

Le temps qui passe, sans que la vie soit vécue…

La vieillesse qui sera bientôt là…

Et moi qui ne fais rien pour changer cela…

Misère de misère…

Quel rêve ce serait, profondément,

Que d’être dans ce flux, dans cette mouvance irrésistible du succès,

Où l’authentique travail porte ses fruits,

Ou fleurit, comme on voudra – s’épanouit, éclot, rayonne…

Une vie qui va de l’avant, une vie où le présent n’est pas partagé entre vague espoir ou dépression réelle.

Et dire que la vie peut être cruelle, en plus de cela. Cruelle au sens de chaotique, avec les accidents, les malheurs, etc. Et dire que cela pourrait être, en fait, les derniers jours de la meilleure partie de ma vie… Juste avant un accident qui me réduirait carrément à un invalide, sans aucun espoir social ou affectif… Avec un futur immobilisé, où il ne me resterait que la nostalgie de ces deux dernières années, ce qu’elles ont pu avoir de si beau, même dans la demi-vie que j’ai vécu.

La pensée est terrible. Frémissement.

Je suis toujours, toujours porté par le rêve.

Le rêve de quelque chose de meilleur.

De vraiment meilleur.

Le rêve d’un décrochage, d’une ouverture fondamentale.

Qui rendrait ma vie présente, et ces dernières années,

Une fin de nuit, et aujourd’hui une aube.

Je vis toujours dans ce rêve.

Il se peut que bientôt j’aie à y renoncer.


Impossible de lire (pour l’instant).

Une chose est sûre, ça a commencé à changer.

Je parviens à lire, beaucoup beaucoup plus qu’avant.

Je parviens à lire, je pourrais parvenir à relire, et, bien plus,

Sans doute aussi à travailler, une nouvelle fois, sur le matériel textuel.

Mais ce n’est évidemment qu’une misère…

Je ne vois pas cela autrement.

Misère de lire et relire ces textes, en n’ayant aucun espoir de futur, aucun respect de soi, aucune voie vers un accomplissement, un résultat, etc. Tristesse.


Mais si je ne lis pas…

Et si je ne crois pas vraiment, maintenant, dans cet écrire si las, si faible,

(Comment ces maigres lignes aujourd’hui pourraient-elles changer quoi que ce soit ?

Comment ne pourrais-je rien que sentir le froissement d’un infime progrès, là, en moi?)

Et si je suis seul, sans l’envie de rentrer dans cette chambre atone,

Que faire ?

J’écris, et les mains recommencent à chauffer…

Bientôt il faudra que j’arrête…

Pour ne pas aggraver la situation.

(Je lis en sentant un rythme : mais je n’ai que mépris pour cette concrétude, cette simplicité baveuse, grise…)


Badiou, qui me fait cet effet profond.

Qui dit ce que j’aimerais être, et comment j’aimerais agir.

Puis, étonnement toujours, je ré-ouvre Mystery.

Cet éblouissement.

Il y a avec indubitable clarté la Chose de vie que je veux.

Cette méthode. Cette force, cette ténacité, et ce triomphe.

Bien sûr, c’est tout dans l’intention.

Tout doit être découvert par soi-même, tout doit être expérimenté.

C’est là tout le problème des méthodes.

Dès le nœud originel présenté,

À nouveau les tricks, les résultats singuliers de son élan

Ce n’est pas cela qui intéresse directement (même si ça peut être utile).

Il y a une intelligence.

Peut-être pas la meilleure, mais une intelligence toutefois.

Il y a le souvenir de ce rêve, si fort alors…

Ce rêve d’une autre vie, d’une réinvention de moi-même.

Il me semble que c’est toujours possible.

Temporellement, du moins.

Ce qui est beaucoup plus difficile, bien sûr, c’est de mettre cela effectivement en acte.

Tellement difficile.

Parvenir à travailler à nouveau.

Voilà la chose quasi impossible.

Me sortir de cette torpeur.

Il se pourrait que cette écriture soit un pas.

Mais n’est-ce pas un pas trop lent, trop faible ?

(Ou alors au contraire c’est le seul pas, le seul vrai pas que je peux faire…)


Toujours, toujours

Cet écart…

Entre un « sérieux » et une « profondeur » véritable

Chez Badiou

Et ce soupçon, constamment, que ce soit presque tout faux, intenable, etc.

Cette idée que l’analytique est en fait la seule voie (i.e. une grande voie multiple, pleine de différents gestes, etc.), et le continental juste quelques uns…

Mais ce tout ou rien doit être impérativement abandonné.

Il faut parvenir à une vision nuancée des choses.

Où les faiblesses peuvent être comprises et relevées,

Où les richesses sont extraites, assimilées, et respectées.


Le travail de la solitude…

Je désire la solitude sans cesse,

Comme seul lieu de réalisation effective,

Comme lieu de la possibilité même de l’acte fondateur de toute vie

(Création, Travail, Recherche, Découverte, etc.).

Mais dès que j’y suis,

Ne suis-je pas constamment en souffrance ?

En rejet, en fuite, en capitulation ?

Il faudra, (Rimbaud, cité par Badiou),

Que je sache surmonter

Toute consolation.


Le rêve,

Je dois l’avouer,

D’un être ensemble plus plein, plus multicolore…

Le manque d’amis se fait sentir…

Ou la relative insatisfaction de l’activité journalière,

L’absence de futur, etc.


Bloody depression…


bloody “being lost”…

shit, shit, shit…


lost, i.e. no good at anything…

that might be the thing I hide…

this ancient discovery of certain limits in myself…

the horror of it…

the absolute despise of myself if that were to be confirmed…



attempt to read, but nothing really works…


probably simply because…

I don’t produce.

Rather: I did not produce, those past few days…

Bloody hands…

I have to be more careful… More subtle…




What do I want?

The impossible question…

I know things that I want…

Adventurous, glorious life,

Success, excitement, joy, discovery, etc.

I want modes of living, more than the things themselves…

I want to be outrageously good…

Because it is only that way that you manage to live properly…






Some less convincing things. Because those texts are conferences?

Because I see more and more through him?

He definitely has a reductive view of analytic philosophy.

I do as well. I should read more of it.

Get to it…


Badiou, donc.

The absolute central idea that mathematics, through Plato, is recognized as what is not opinion, the doxa. What gets outside it. A supreme achievement.




What do I want?

How do I get… out…? Out of this state, out of… this shit life?



The impossibility to become.

Blocked… in passivity?




writing… a little…?

(always the threat on the hands, hell!)


no way anywhere…

that is the main problem…


All positive ways are shut.

Or so they are in my mind.




(obviously science)


Everything is shut.

Nowhere any excellence is to be reached.

What is to be done?

How on earth could I exist?

Even start to exist?


And I don’t believe, as some describe thinking of Nietzsche,

That it is enough to utter to make it happen

(the breaking of History, enunciated alone and half-mad)…

You need some sort of foundation.


Descartes’ doubt seems more and more tangible…

More and more ‘to the point’…

Something close, intimate.

Not about reality.

About the possibility to produce anything tangible, strong, stable, true.

Everything seems to be… sand, foam…

ça glisse entre les doigts… impossible à attraper…


I feel no strength in me.

No energy…

Everything is dead…

I read a bit…

I try to go further…

But nothing really … exist


I am always empty, always still in this state of failure…

It is never enough, etc.

There is never a hint of success…

A hint of progress, that could be made effective, by the beam of light of recognition and triumph (even small)…

Everything I do, everything I study…

Is for nothing

Everything is always abandoned,

Everything is gradually forgotten…

And no summit is ever reached…


And this is only, I am sure, because I am not disciplined enough.

I do not work.

At least do not work properly.


And I am not well situated either (with the right people around me, especially above me)…

I would need to be much, much better connected…




Supposedly, all doors might not be shut…

Hard to believe.

No ‘doors’ = despair = depression = inability to work.


Maybe, of course, I only read from left to right, instead of going the other way around…

Start doing

Doing anything…


Doing this….

The only thing I can do now, it seems…


Yet this will not help me survive…

Bloody hell.


How to use one’s brain.

That is, where to focus.

What you think about,

What parts of the world you ‘select’.


Descartes, in his Regulae, clearly states it.

Stop focussing on vague, uncertain things.

Focus on simple, clear things.

Start from there, and expand this area

Using specific, well defined rules (deduction).

(I suppose that deduction rules must be as obvious, simple and clear as the first principles/intuition?)


But that almost necessarily imply

The renunciation to arts

And many other areas of life.

The social domains are not covered either.

All those things that make people live together, love each other, etc.

It is one, albeit immense, varied, crucial, area of human activity.


Analytic philosophy: is it only one path in philosophy

(Contrary to what many in those ranks who say that it is the only way…),

or indeed this true path, the ‘other one’, ‘Continental’, only being a mistake…?

It would be beautiful, in a way…

If there was one true path, like in the sciences…


It is certain, for instance, that neglecting the advances of logic is a mistake, since logic, like mathematics, advances. Yet it is not clear at all that the interpretation(s) of it that is(are) given is(are) the only one(s) possible. It might be that analytic philosophy is indeed imbued with Aristotelism, as Badiou says, and could see its figure change with the introduction of other ways of approaching problems, etc. It seems difficult to believe, though, considering the number of platonists, skeptics, kantians, etc., that are to be found in so called ‘analytic’ departments, that Badiou’s picture of it is ‘fair’… I fear he is simply scornful, as they are in those milieux in Paris, and does not pay much interest to those Anglo-American thinkers. (Or on the contrary he knows about them, being an editor for Seuil, and is yet fiercely against this way of doing philosophy, and reacts by scorn, dismissal or simply silence, another possible attitude towards one’s ‘enemies’…)




Again a relatively ‘low’ phase.

After the reading of philosophy and literature.

I suppose it would be nice to be able to read science now…


I feel my back/belly problem emerging again.

A little.


The thing is, I am lost.

I am lost and really not in the right ‘place’.

I am, somehow, yet not really.


I might be lucky…

And something could present itself…

I might not be… and live in misery for the next ten years or more…

It could all be possible.


(bloody hands, with a beginning of tendinitis… Just because I started to write a bit ‘more’…

and it does not really go away… shit…)

(this writing is too easy… that is why I write so much… that is why I get tendinitis…)



The question of the management of my life is still completely, well, vague.

I cannot survive within Academia with my present state.

I cannot go back to Switzerland…

I cannot prostitute my mind, my writing. It is far too precious. (Memory of Hugo, Les Misérables,

where this young mother ends up dying in the streets, having sold her teeth to feed her child, etc.)

I have not yet found a way to work truly and profoundly.

I have not found a real… place.

I might want to read more analytic philosophy?

Or contemporary literature?

Or nothing at all…? That is, nothing specialized…?

Nothing… academic?

One of the problems, of course, lies in the absence of stability…

This impression that if you want to stay in Academia, you need to fight…

Fight, fight, fight constantly, without any moment of respite, etc.

It might be that this is what I truly need.


That is, some kind of schedule

With moments with, moments without, academic work.

It would be nice to be able to reach that.

This dream schedule, 9-13,14-19-2030-…

And maybe a day off per week…

Something structured.


Writing, again…

It is yet wholly without form

And I know I cannot reach anything without a long, long exercise…

My hands will not allow it.

Maybe in manuscript?




What am I to do?

Where could I find a place for myself?

Analytic philosophy is a place for geeks and mechanistic intellectual rats, continental philosophy a den of megalomaniacs and self-indulgent pompous brats, literature the land of success, vanity or absolute poverty, music a super elite crowd of ‘born into it’-s, with also vanity, pomposity or mechanistic tendencies…

Loneliness, I suppose… Loneliness…

Where could hope be?


I suppose it is only because of my current low state…






Probably the clearest reproach that might be done to him is that he actually concentrates too little material in his books? That there is not enough ‘thought’, and too much literary flowering, too much of this ‘turning around things’…

But therein might lie the Continental/Analytic divide… The Continental would argue that this movement of ‘turning around things’ is actually the only true way of doing philosophy, because it is only thus that you can really approach something non-trivial, and that the very ‘clear’ formulations of the Analytic trend are usually either trivial or not enough thought upon – and most of all, they are trusted by them. They think that those formulations are actually reflecting reality in an accurate way, although they are not, etc.

Not sure, not sure.

Of course, I am far, far too ignorant in both traditions to be able to judge. Yet this really something I would be interested in knowing more. It seems to be something of our time. Something crucial.




What do I want?

It was indeed the right question to ask.

What do I want…


A whole, immense gap opens…

I might know, actually…

A relatively unspeakable thing…

Is it really the case?

Do I really want… that?

Or is this… the veil under which the repressed crouches…?


Despair, despair, yes…


I don’t know what I could do…


I know what I want…

But I don’t know how to reach it…

Because it is too great, too bright, too immense…

And I know it is a folly…

A dream…




I wanted a pause from Badiou.

And I start again, Conditions, and I find, again, such fascinating considerations touching philosophy, its history, the links with mathematics…

It might be I would have liked to become a mathematician?

I feel so… deprived of identity…

Nothing seems really home…

In the realm of thought itself