Things I have bought over the years to convince myself I was happy: a brass lizard; a wire lizard; two small boxes, one in some featherweight lacquered wood, the other ceramic and half glazed with a stylised picture of the local architecture; a bowl in striking fire and earth colours now faded; various earrings; two belts and some peculiarly sordid- and pre-used-looking suede shoes; Italian things; Canary Island things; Spanish things. All these things bought out of a mistaken elation or assumption, all this unwarranted semiosis, all these unmemorable memories and tokens from moments unviable from the very start. You can’t quite call them kitsch, but they don’t have a quality of personal nostalgia either. It was weird being a romantic and living in a constant aura or vibe, a “dream” I suppose, or at any rate a sense of something happening when nothing, in retrospect, was. Luckily, age lifts you out of that, enabling a proud shiny new impulse control in boutique, fleamarket and gallery shop; freeing you up to buy the rubbish you actually like. (Something resembling a small wormy stone brain picked up on a beach does not belong to this class of objects.)
What class of objects does the thing resembling a small wormy stone brain picked up on a beach belong to? Was there really a beach? Was it picked up from the beach with the same hand that now seems to have more liver spots than the other? Do the hand, the beach, the thing that resembles a small wormy stone brain belong to the same class? Is class dismissed?
You have to guess.
As the narrator is in the first person and may or may not be closer or further to the author and I’d like you to have a nice day instead of other possibilities, I’ll guess: Nah, they don’t. Class dismissed.
My goal is for William Gibson to paste a passage of his into “I Write Like” and have it come back saying he writes like me.
This is too f33king boring to leave a comment for. To. After.