I need that certain something, to be able to write. I need it: to get into an exalted mood, an excitement! But I am so tired from the constant physical convulsions. High blood pressure when straightening the body. Squeezing out the intestines. Awakening in agony and confusion, without muscle tone, a slack, air teacher Ball, which is washed against the horizon by evil waves. I have no chance, my health too want, I can rot and degenerate, the protuberances, which show up in every part of the body, don't stop, I stand by that, what's going on in my body, like a person in the baroque to a thunderstorm.
I am so clueless and do not know the cause of my downing. I don't know the fights, that my body plays. I live in a kind of middle ages. I am calling out to God, so that he opens the vascular goblet for me, in the neck, so that the blood flows back into my head. And I can think and write and be excited again. Good: the black bird. (after Bernhard) He's got no glam. He doesn't seduce me. I still have his book, the Bible, not studied. There, it's true: i need something difficult. This existence is so unsanctified. So informal. I haven't looked through a keyhole in so long. intimacy, That would take my breath away.
Also, how should i mean “quarantine” weights? I can't even think of an epic, that this formless presence grasps. Have the “Zauberberg” read again. Flauberts “Emma Bovary” and Zolas “Germinal“. Catherine maheux, the 500 Meters deep underground in the coal shaft loves and dies. While Cecil, the daughter of the mine owner Brioches is having breakfast in the well-heated room. I see the world from inside through the books. But this one, I've been in 46 Years live, I do not see.
This almost drove me crazy, they want that. 15 Years: that I don't reach a core, from which I find out about my environment. What I do not find out, I can only express it as a lack and a lack, in my writing. I have to fill pages with blank lines, because I don't see the people, do not know, do not touch.
I haven't come to Bowil for four years. The little village in the Emmental, 30 Minutes by train. And then walk back to Konolfingen along the Emme. Through the grass, past the sweet smelling cows, the blossoming trees and farm dogs. To reach the Emmental: although I wanted to go into the world. But then I thought: this world, she can come to me too. At this moment! Then came quarantine one, then quarantine two. Zizek: “Will we we have a soul without a body?” That is me, futuristic and at the same time anachronistic: a soul without a body. Making love is a very, very beautiful thing. Hopefully people won't forget it in their obsession, to be immune to everything. What do I know! I don't know a single drama next door, that I could be part of.
I am writing about Ghost City as a place of ghosts. I can only describe it. But not, when i'm not aroused. And the tension doesn't reach my peaks. Then I write badly. Writing is a sport, better said ballet, dance, a 100% energetic matter. My body dangles beneath me with no tone. On the back of my neck, where the nerves and blood vessels come together, everything is contracted and narrowed and I don't know, how can I open this lock. With such a small volume of blood.
Catherine maheux shovels coal in the shaft 50 City. She does it, like men and takes off her shirt. But then she faints. When the strike breaks out above, Catherine goes on shoveling coal. The strike leads to it, that the children are starving. So what is it good for?? The coal miners have no alternative. Reassurance know that. So he destroys the pit in a criminal act. The dams collapse, the workers drown. Catherine climbs the 60 Ladders, which lead vertically from the coal shaft to the outside. Her already dead body is pushed up between two other bodies. And yet these people are so happy on weekends, to dance, drink, fuck.
Much happier than the decadents, who take the spa treatment up in Davos, about 20 years later in the “Zauberberg”. Castorf and Settembrini. Weeks, Months and years go by, but the stain on Castorf's lungs doesn't seem to change. Suddenly something happens to him: he doesn't want to go down any more, he wants to stay at home with the illness. Time slows down. Castorf falls out of her. He is no longer a citizen, but something like a idiot. He now finds the healthy vulgar and the sick noble. But then he has to go down, denn Settembrini, the humanist, said yes, that the war will come. He is an evil, but must be. (!) Castorf's traces are lost in the battlefield. Probably it will have an ordinary ending. Thomas Mann copied some characters, e.g.. Medical Councilor Behrens. This was a pulmonologist in the TB clinic in Davos and he wanted to put the prospective Nobel Prize winner Mann on trial. But then let it be.
In these epics people are in spite of all their evils and circumstances, People. And in today's epics? Haven't seen any eyes in a very long time. eyes, who crawl questioningly or laughingly over the edge of a mask. I'm sure, one could still write epics. But for that you have to live in the world. they experience. Immerse yourself in it slowly enough.
What kind of book did God write?
In my imagination: a big, beautiful protection book! A security book!!!!!!!
(28.5.2021)
Emil Zola/Germinal, 1885, that 600 pages
Thomas Mann / The Magic Mountain, 1925, about 1120 pages