Sunday, January 27, 2019

Homunculus Rex

“I once had a toy, a little wooden man in a blue coat who was moved by strings. When I played with him, I made him walk and bow, and spoke for him. I practiced until I thought myself very clever. One day I saw my mother holding the two sticks that held his strings, and my little man saluting my youngest sister much more cleverly than I could have made him do it, and laughing with his head thrown back, then mourning with his face in his hands. I never spoke of it to my  mother, but I was angry and ashamed.
— On Blue's Waters by Gene Wolfe, pg. 158

Thursday, January 24, 2019

What Ray Monk didn't tell us about Wittgenstein...

When people are about to die, all they want to do is fuck. People in jails and hospitals, all they want to do is fuck. The helpless, the impotent, the castrated, all they want to do is fuck. The seriously injured, the suicidal, the impenitent disciples of Heidegger. Even Wittgenstein, the greatest philosopher of the twentieth century, all he wanted to do was fuck. Even the dead, I read somewhere, all they want to do is fuck. Sad to say and hard to admit, but that's the way it is.

— Illness + Illness = Illness in The Insufferable Gaucho by Roberto BolaƱo