Tuesday, 2 June 2015

Through some of the updates on the news sites, I noticed two things that made me want to kill myself early on.  Not literally, but certainly intellectually and… Fuck it, something has to be done about this. I TRY to be sympathetic and regard the bigger picture, I really do. I just …
The retard who wrote 50-shades-of-you-must-be-fucking- joking  is now writing another book of the same subject, told from the perspective of that sick rich guy. Normally I would think, hm, a bestseller is a tough act to follow – looking at contemporary rock star authors who managed to write themselves into a corner and got stuck, like Martin, but mostly about legends of American literature, who felt like towards the end they wrote all the good they can write and were being depressed and disarmed – like Truman Capote, Hunter Thompson, Hemingway, even Scott Fitzgerald and Kerouac … These people really worked hard – and a lot more than just these – and it broke their heart when people said they were pass their creative prime. But the retard of 50 shades? She couldn’t possibly write worse, it is just not universally doable unless she ties her face with a wet dishrag and randomly smacks her head at the keyboard – and still her work will be a bestseller. Nobody will ever be able to say her last book is not as good as her previous four or whatever many there already are. That’s just fucking genius.
The other thing that hammered a nail in my coffin was seeing that Kim Kardashian published an expensive looking book of her selfies. It’s bad enough they put her transgender stepfather on the cover of Vanity Fair as if those morons of South Beach need any more publicity and as if he is the prime representative of the transgender population – it seems it would be impossible to sell the magazine if they put on the cover someone who can spell .. But to create a coffee table book of some retard’s selfies, trout-pouting and shoving her fake tits into her camera phone …
I am not kidding. This shit just kills me. I don’t stand a fucking chance. The harder I try to write a really good book that an intellectual society and other authors of contemporary fiction would be proud of, the further away I am at a chance of ever seeing it sold.
I will never admire good writers or otherwise authors more than seeing them insist in the struggle against the dumb fucking popular demand. It is an impossibly unhappy task. Futile, too. But if intelligent men and women of the arts cease to try and keep the dam from overflowing with stupidity, the game is over. And society is lost. It seems to be on the brink of going back to completely stupid for most of the time as it is. I am only just now starting to be able to broaden the picture of obvious subjects. And see how men who were great because they were charismatic sometimes did impossible terrible things in the long run. I gotsta try and learn more, but for what and for whom? Whom would I tell, who would want to listen or read the things that’s taken me 40 years to figure out? We are so many. And we are so incredibly easily entertained.

.. I would write more about this, but I have to use the lavatories.