I almost crave the old despair, so I can return to the mountains and cold stoveless rooms. In this time of plenty and warmth, I must fill my boots and save as much money as I can. When disaster comes as it must, I will be ready with stockpile to head back to the cold icy air with. Sils Maria too. I am one of life’s outsiders; you can try to bring me in but I will never feel comfortable or happy; and will have to fly away again. Like Wendy tried to lure Peter in, but he had to go.
There is a kind of dangerous desire for defeat, for only in complete abject defeat and despair can one experience that release of pure nihilism, that eroticism of despair that enables real sexual ecstacy to flower, to bloom and blossom from the absolute fertiliser of shit in which one is now wallowing. For instance one can yearn for a wonderful blessed marriage to a beautiful woman to be lost because it restricts one’s true desire too much so one can be free to wallow in shame and degradation again, one can yearn for wonderful job and career to be ruined because it would allow one not to refrain from certain practices, so one can be free to wallow in shame and degradation again. This yearning for disaster, defeat, shame, humiliation, as only then can you achieve real sexual highs. Only in the most abject lows can you experience the most sublime sexual and spiritual highs. A real Sadeian Nihilism. A French cyclist who wants never to win stages of the Tour de France or to ever again win the race itself so the despair and the bitterness can become richer and richer, like a child biting down on a loose tooth to release that amazing sweet taste of blood and feel that amazing pain. This whole attitude is prevalent through the life of the Marquis de Sade, and I recognise it so strongly in myself. It is both terrifying, and disgusting, and makes me want to cry, at the same time as filling me with a dangerous excitement, a devilish desire, a feeling that is my true desire. So sitting with my beautiful never to be unloved wife in a pub together looking at some lonely old man sitting alone all afternoon with his pint, quietly and with dignity speaking to no one, but just periodically returning to the bar to politely take another drink, I find myself yearning to be that lonely old man myself as I get older. There is a dignity to them, a beauty. Like sad abused old dogs recovering from their terrible wounds in some dog sanctuary seem so much more lovable and noble than happy dogs.
Yes I want despair, ruin again, that is when EROTICISM comes back to life. When I come back to life. Taste my misery like blood in my mouth. Writing with blue hands in cold stoveless rooms.
From the margins of The Bohemians: “When I didn’t know how to cope with life, everything cut so deep–the highs and the lows. Now I am settled down with home and wife, nothing can affect me at all. Being eviscerated by loneliness and despair has its advantages it seems. Now I feel a kind of warm dullness from my contentment; I am anguished by my contentment. The fact that last night I smashed the right lens of my glasses which I have had for 13 years seems an omen of something.”