Well, I think that The Book was doing it to me. On purpose. You know, as in, this is a book about how fucked up people are/the world is in late capitalism, and so I (the book? the author?) have to make you fucked up and impatient and grasping and unable to do anything but scurry around without clear purpose only to BLOW YOUR MIND when it all starts coming together about a full third of the way through.
So one might wonder why I gravitate toward books that make me feel the deep sense of impatience and despair, as I always have done, but I do think that it has something to do with the intense pleasure that then comes when it all clicks into place. That said, there's clearly a sado-masochistic streak at work here. I mean, seriously: there are people who work on things that they just love. Why don't I - and why have I refused to - work on things that I love without this deep ambivalence? Why does that thought disturb me, whereas slogging through things that make me crazy make me feel like I'm doing something worthwhile? And why can't I realize that it's the books that do this to me, and so I let the impatience and despair seep over into other parts of my life, making mountains out of molehills, etc.? I've been doing this for over 10 years, so you'd think I'd be able to distinguish between the impatience and despair produced by narrative and actual impatience and despair. But no. Not me. It all gets blurry around the edges with me. I suppose, though, that the benefit is that when I get past the impatience and despair part that the woohoo! feeling also seeps over, so there is some compensation.
Ok, so back to reading. It's still dense, it's still tough going, but now, well, any impatience I'm feeling is registering more as excitement.
1 year ago