Tuesday, December 02, 2008

"Gatsby's Pains & Tribulations".
Pp. 113-117

When it hurts to be alive, what do you do? Is death the primary option or are there more? I ponder it, but reach no conclusion. What if death is no surcease of pain or discomfort? What if one's mental agony goes on? Should I write a novel about it? How could that ever be of interest? I suspect it's all been done. There's not, and never has been, anything more boring than descriptions of such cold discomfort--at any rate, I can't imagine it.

When it hurts to be alone, what do you do? I could go out (I sometimes do), but no one's there and those who are not there have no cognizance of their absence or of mine and we are all in the stew together, even if we are alone... I guess that doesn't quite make sense, though I know what it means and it may be that you do, too...

We hang around, we wait to see, and wish that things still meant things like they used to do, but most of those old things are gone or, at the least, eroded, faded, worn away, reduced to pity's matters... If we could get out of all of this, wouldn't we? Or is that just me? Is everyone else acquainted, familiar with, and not embarrassed by, these deathful knells, these trembling spells, these waits upon the edge of every ditch or trench? It may be so... Which, though? I can't even keep track of what I postulate...


  1. When it hurts to be alive you need to get your doctor to help deal with the pain - if it's pysical - but you know that already.

    When it hurts to be alone you, Ron, have so much talent - put it to use and write, write, write - write to others who feel as you do but have no talent. Your talent should be your crutch, your carrot and your catalyst.

    So there! :-P

  2. Is there any more of this?

  3. I hope that you have not overlooked that (A) Gatsy wrote this and (B) Gatsby is dead. I inherited his writings, which are an awful mishmash of typed and handwritten notes, of which I publish bits and pieces. The awful truth is that I am using it as filler when I have nothing better to say of my own.

  4. Oh! I thought Gatsby was your "other" self, Ron. Sorry! I wasn't paying close enough attention. I'm glad it wasn't you! :-)


Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)