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Sunday, January 11, 2015

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Saturday, July 12, 2014

The Sex, the City, the Kitsch, and the Massage

I seldom write about movies. That's because most of them are the product of a Hollywood-infested cinema. But I did find a TV series worth discussing: "Sex and the City". With its sexist, pseudo-feminist, hedonistic and groce-quasi-elitist (financial elitism) traps, "Sex and the City" is by far the best description of fake democratic ideals: women are smarter than men (and, if they want to, they can control every little thing in a man's life), sex is all that there is to the average Joe, any social problem has an "out-of-the-box" tricky solution (if your husband is impotent, file a divorce, because the marriage will never work!), the perfect guy is always a Mr. Big (yeah, recalling the "big is beautiful" American stereotype), the pun is a shadow of the Sun (to be read: puns are a clear sign of intelligence), food and clothes make us what we really are (my God, how creepy is that?).

"Sex and the City" integrates the most common by-products of consumerism. As its name shows, it deals with both sex and the characteristics of a post-industrial New York City: shallowness, superficial ethical dilemmas, individualism, and, above all, money. Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker), Miranda Hobbes (Cynthia Nixon), Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall), Charlotte York (Kristin Davis) are the protagonists. Carrie is ugly, but her writing talent accomplishes what her beauty should have done instead. Samantha is the embodiment of hedonism. Everything that she does, is in the name of sex. Her life is centered upon it. Miranda is a fancy lawyer who despises men, unless they give her orgasms. Charlotte is unstable and always in doubt about her life. She doesn't know what she really wants, she vacillates between romanticism and the obtain-pleasure-for-its-own-sake behavior.

 The dilemmas that the four friends are confronted with vary from abortion to cheating on one's husband. There's nothing impressive about the topics of the movie, unless those who watch are teenagers...then, yes, you have to pay attention not to miss any episode! So why was the series challenging to me? Because it made me asks questions like: why do women think like that? why do they need to be so picky? why is marriage such a big issue? why is money so important? There's no exceptional answer to all these questions, everything is so straightforward and impossibly dumb that it makes you give up thinking altogether...

Women like Samantha or Miranda don't know why they think as they think, and don't care about questioning their beliefs. They're just satisfied with their way of life, their arrogance doesn't allow them to be critical about it. The only one who adopts such a "philosophical" attitude is Carrie - and the reason is that she writes a column about "Sex and the City", therefore she is pushed to think. She takes a critical stand on life because it is her job to do it. The other three characters approach life with some sort of ironical superiority that allows them to position above those whom they interact with. They feel like being beyond the ordinary aspects of womanship, but they are, at the same time, ordinary. This is the "paradox" of the Hollywood type of movie, which is taught in schools as "realism": ordinary characters in ordinary circumstances. "Sex and the City" tries to be "realistic", although its realism paradigm is highly debatable: Charlotte, a totally non-Christian girl, marries a totally non-Christian guy without having sex prior to their marriage; Carrie is neurotic, but also highly realistic (however, not the Woody Allen kind of character); Miranda tends to be a lawyer that knows "what she wants", but often excludes her desires from her wishlist in a sado-masochistic attempt to be herself; Samantha falls in love for Richard, a rich romantic cunning mister who cheats on, and lies to, her, but in the first four seasons of the series she poses in a powerful woman who can master the minds of men and persuade them to be as she likes. Life is, of course, contradictory, but many of the situations in which the four protagonists find themselves are doubtful and hard to buy.

"Sex and the City" is very instructive for the young girls in need of power. They learn tips and tricks from the movie and eventually feel confident that things will look up if they apply them to their lives. However, as it happens, that's not the case. "Sex and the City" is only a piece of brainwashing Hollywood production with no perspectives whatsoever outside a society deprived of authenticity, whose values are brought about by unjustified individualism (materialistic - if Carrie likes that pair of shoes, that means it's the best one, if Miranda loves Steve, then Steve is the best guy for a lawyer-woman), and whose social problems are reduced to sex and lifestyle. How pitiful is that, may I ask...yet real!?

Sunday, June 15, 2014

The Meaning of "Cocalar"

Life is, in its essence, social. We are not born out of nothing, we come from flesh and genetics is fatal to us. We are spoiled by our genetic code. Everything we do latches on genetics, be it a fight against, or a struggle to cope with, our DNA. We label others because our genes need to pay off the overload of feeling ourselves superior to one another, a feeling that gets through the social chain in which language hits over and over again just to stamp our DNAs in various modes. Language supplements genetics, nothing more, nothing less.

So why then we, humans, tend to play with language in ways that determine social appurtenance to classes, poetry and the jazz of lustful life? In Romania, a country that fades away in the Eastern landscape of transitional values (whatever the heck that means), postcommunist undesirable social categories find their home by disturbing the normal evolutionary capitalistic frame of bla-bla-blas and law-ialty. One term that poses and poses the "great minds" (elitist freaks) a great problem is "cocalar". And it's not only the term that counts, it's also its ontological counterpart. A "cocalar" is usually a denomination for a tasteless guy who is so uninteresting and undesirable that whatever he does is considered (by the educated crowd) futile and despicable. A "cocalar" is someone who is so arrogant that doesn't realize his being arrogant. The pejorative meaning bears on a social category of gypsy - "cocalar" is actually a gypsy that belongs to the social class "cocalari" (among "ursari" or "caldarari", for instance). However, a "cocalar" is looked down upon as a guy who does no good to society altogether. He is the embodiment of nothingness, he is a nothing that pretends to be something, and, in doing so, he fails to accept his actual real social status. A "cocalar" is deprived of self-awareness: he is so preoccupied with imitating kitchy appearances which could make him cut through the social ranks, that he forgets what he is and will be. The Romanian "cocalar" will always try to show others that he is a VIP in the worst possible ways. He will try to look like a guy full of money and behave like a totally uneducated one; in this sense, disturbing others is always mandatory: the "cocalar" will blow op his car speakers just to be sure that all the district listens to what he, in his delirium tremens, enjoys (usually "manele", another epitaph of the low gypsy culture that penetrated postcommunist Romania like a cultural rainbow). The "cocalar" will never accept that someone else can be "more special" than him; no, he has to be the ONLY one capable of doing what he does. Sameness is always perceived as dangerous - if another cocalar forged the sound of his car's speakers to be louder, our cocalar is threaten and he has to push the limits of his own speakers. Thereby he takes the risk of being considered an annoying guy, although his intention is to pose into a nice guy, a model of courage and power for his "poor" fellows that watch him adventuring into Cocalar's Wonderland, where the White Rabbit is merely a source of fur. 

The "cocalar" doesn't know what modesty is, but dreams of all people being modest, apart from him, the King. He doesn't know why he should be praised, but he needs it. He needs attention like the squirrel needs nuts, but he doesn't want to be nuts - no, he wants to be considered a normal guy with a special social status. He needs the latest BMW, the most luxurious house, the most good-looking women around him. A "cocalar" is a cancerous social cell of poverty and lack of education, gathered into a superficial pile of flash that cries over attention, a flesh that has no self-perception and no self-awareness of its being a sample of DNA whatsoever. Can one even talk to a "cocalar" without being deceived by him? It's hard to say...but let's be tolerant and love the "cocalar" for what he can do for us, the "mortals" that waste their time criticizing, thinking and...may we be excused...writing...

Monday, May 26, 2014

Our dangerous Neighbors: An Abandoning and Defense of one of our Higher Callings

A small idea I have been tacitly tinkling with for the last few days (upwards of a week), building upon some rather unappealing assumptions I cannot move away from.

I am of the unfortunate disposition that humans are essentially incapable of altruistic acts, an opinion that gains me few to no friends. As I understand it, we are meant to conceive of altruism itself as the purely selfless act, where by the agent thinks at least none of itself (for various purposes I will be using the non-gendered noun), and perhaps even counts its well being in the negative, i.e. sacrifices its own well being for the sake of some beneficiary. For various reasons, this seems to be out of line with the type of Being humans are bestowed with. Although here is not the place to elaborate on the arguments against true altruistic capabilities, suffice it to say that through revealed preferences, a standard economic idea, all decisions made by humans inevitably indicates some sort of belief in being better off with the decision made. 

There are naturally cases wherein humans act without having true preferences whatsoever, times of uncertainty where the outcomes of actions are not know to the actor, occasions where the actor are tricked into an unfair deal (an unfortunately typical occurrence in our system) etc. but I don't think anyone would like to call a case where, say, a farmer is tricked into giving away his life savings for three magic (they are not magic) beans as a case of altruism towards a deceitful bean farmer. We would certainly not like to think of the oppressed masses as voluntarily letting themselves be taken advantage of for the good of the capitalist overlord, although perhaps some would like to give the masses the moral high ground (in which case I would beg that we devolve into hedonism). Barring such claims, I would claim that consciously, with relatively high amounts (such that the actor has a good idea of what it is getting into) of information decisions are never made without the actors interests at heart. 

It paints a bleak picture for human nature indeed, many of us fall back always upon the believe in a fundamental human goodness, or at least the capability towards some goodness. In the following I would like to present a rather neutered but more feasible and with regards to outcome just as full position for human goodness, which will begin with a discussion of a rather down on his luck neighbor.
It need not have a name for our purpose, let it only be known that it is remarkably worse of financially than ourselves, and lives in such a vicinity that our brand pride and joy is constantly within his grasp: a 1956 (no idea if this year is significant for motorcycles) Harley-Davidson, a present from our deceased father, a memorial of days past, the last remnants of a trip made across wide lands with a now deceased spouse, whatever you want it to be. Our only goal in life is this motorcycle, its upkeep, the ability to take it on short rides and longer trips; it is the object of our long hours at work, the sacrificed free time in stead spent slaving under an ugly boss smelling of.. whatever, you get the point. We only care about this motorcycle, and moreover, we do not give a damn about our neighbor.

It seems we have a good reason to keep our neighbor content, however. Our interest may only lie with the motorcycle, but our neighbor might interfere with our interest: he could steal and sell it, in a drunken rage he could scratch it out of malice, and any number of things that would render our life's worth null and void. Our neighbor poses a threat to our self-interest via his ability to to ruin our hopes for it, our capability of preserving it, or even of enjoying it. We have at this point only mode of recourse: keeping our neighbor happy. 

Some may balk at this, there must be other options, they would say. We could move, have our neighbor arrested, force our neighbor to move, chain our precious motorcycle inside the house such that nothing short of breaking in through our front door could put it at risk. Sadly, none of the options will ever suffice, as we have not just one neighbor, but billions, such that we could not arrest all of them, such that some of them are nations with weapons strong enough to render our home and motorcycle into dust, such that we are outnumbered and could never move far enough away to completely rid ourselves of the nagging thought in the back of our minds: oh dear, we surely hope my motorcycle is still ok since we've last checked on it.

The more adept reader will have noticed that we are not speaking simply form a motorcycle, but from any number of goods we hold dear: possessions, freedom, loved ones, pride in being, but at the bottom level it is simply of any sort of self interest, that elusive thing manifesting itself in our plethoric decisions from day to day, the only thing that we actually care about. Unfortunately, it is not the case that we have been truly acting in our self interest, as we have continued to allow ourselves to ignore the basic truth, that our interests will never be safe so long as there is someone looking across the road, either wanting what we have or resenting us simply for having it, in any way threatening it. Our only recourse is to make sure that our neighbor has no reason to do us harm, has no wants, and doesn't feel in anyway inclined towards any act that would put our interests in danger. We essentially have to work to made our neighbor content, but if we bar for a moment any reference to states of mind, to intentions, then we have for all empirical purposes an altruistic act. It is only with the intent of the act that is loses it's selfless character.

It is only by truly understand the requisites for our own self interests that we can come to altruism in a world wherein we are governed as such, by inclinations to our singular goals and wants. It does not require full information, or full rationality to achieve, but just a simple consideration of those who are not as well off to give ourselves the freedom and security to pursue our own interests. Of course problems arise when we consider the reality of scarcity, that we can never completely satisfy everyone, but a world wherein the motivation to take against the wills of others is not so difficult to realize.

Monday, April 28, 2014

Rebel without an effect (II)

What is the meaning of "rebellion"? How do we look after the meaning of a concept? How do we conceive of it, how do we relate to it, how do I construct it?

This is confusing. Am I constructing the meaning or rather reproducing it bluntly? If I were to write a literary piece of work, I would construct the meaning of something (even realistic literature pleas for constructivism, as some literary critics argued). If I were to observe and share the meaning of a system of concepts as they show up in experience, I would reproduce the meaning. Of course some authors are inclined to draw the conclusion that constructing the meaning is way more difficult than barely reproducing it. But is the difficulty at stake? Why would we despise works that are "less difficult" than others?

Why do rebels need to change the world that they live in? Why do they need to see "change"? It's not a psychoanalytical issue, or not only a psychoanalytical one. Some characterize them as "Marxists". Why is that? Some characterized them as "Anarchists". Why is that? Do they really deserve these labels? Are they beyond any label?

Rebellion is an exercise of creativity. Any act of creativity implies rebellion. Even though there are many nay-Sayers who don't give a crap about creativity and prefer to rely on conversation for the sake of it (the so-called trolls), creativity is not defined in terms of "trolling", because creativity is also related and relatable to a scope and always implies finality. You can't be "creative per-se", you need to value your creativity potential in relation to something. "Trolling" is the art of mastering creativity in a domain that doesn't have to do with creativity at all. In fact, it's no domain at all. Freedom of expression superficially understood may raise some big question marks. Trolling is a manifestation of nothingness. You need to feel that you're something so you troll. Unfortunately trolling is not restricted to one area or another. It can be anywhere, like a conversation cancer. Socrates would have been labeled a troll by bourgeoisie, Nietzsche regarded as a troll by peasantry. Relativism, where are thou? On the other hand, politics is the way of the trolls. There's nothing more to politics than trolling. Decisions fade away just like that, people get rich on the spot.

Rebellion is a process. One becomes a rebel. Rebellion is tied to authenticity. Rebels tend to focus on what makes them unique or special. They hate going with the flow, they want to feel the energy that develops on becoming, they desire what can't be grasped. Rebellion is, in a sense, a refusal to acknowledge that you're just like the others. This way, you can rest assured that you'll never be the same again...

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Camil Cardas - My Writing Process

Many thanks to Martin Woodside for inviting me to this great tour blog, and you can see his response here.

1) What am I working on?  

I have been working for more than two years on a very complex volume of poetry, entitled "6 out of 49". It will be launched in either May or June this year at Bookfest (Bucharest), and in this respect I hold an astonishing degree of appreciation for Tracus Arte Publishing. Having finished this piece of work, I consider my effort of showing off my creation down the market completed. No longer have I any motivation, let alone impulse, to publish my work. I don't want to make a farce out of myself, I need to keep being honest, and feel that publishing would make me imagine a certain kind of audience, leading me to modify my writing so as to suit the expectations of that audience. I don't like that, to be honest.

The good news is, I still write. I work on an extensive volume of prose and poetry (intermingled) called "Calea Shiarpelui" (The Way of the Snakey). This book will be published (hopefully) post mortem, and will comprise all my thoughts, emotions and things. Everything I am is in there. I made sure to have more than one copies of it, and always draw backups.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?  

I strive to undertake to perform to be humble. My last book that I told you about is highly sophisticated. It's all about experiment and experimentation. I spent so much time conceiving it that people would think I didn't have anything else to do besides writing. I sensed the consequences. I am aware that the beauty of it will be discovered later than intended. I come with a fresh new way of both writing and reading poetry, called "VNV" (vrei-nu-vrei or, in English, "WNV" - want-not-want), based on blank spaces and the wonder of words repeatability from verse to verse, favored by Raymond Queneau, too. The uniqueness of sophistication is its simplicity. Want-not-want...

3) Why do I write what I do? 

Because I need to. Writing is part of me. I write on Calea Shiarpelui in Romanian, I blog in English and twit in Danish. Rarely greet I in Greek, but when I do it, it seems like Kazantzakis would have snored too much before sneezing out his "Kalimera", and I'm left without any justification whatsoever. I seldom write left-overs.

4) How does your writing process work?  

Ca pe roate. (in Romanian)
Like a Johnsonian derp. (in English)
Stille or roligt. (in Danish)

(Camil Cardas)

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Despre ceea ce nu se poate scrie ar trebui să se fluiere

Pentru că viaţa este o minciună, literatura nu are sens decât ca un exerciţiu de sinceritate. Sigur, nu toată lumea vede lucrurile aşa. Nu de mult, unul dintre cei mai celebri scriitori sud-americani ne asigura că literatura e un fel de striptease invers. Llosa, cred. Pleci de la un adevăr, dar înveţi să-l spui minţind. Pentru că – aşa se zice – marile adevăruri nu se pot spune fără să fie deghizate. De asta, literatura e o artă. Dar de fapt în literatură, ca şi în viaţă, e foarte rar vorba de mari adevăruri. Marile adevăruri nu prea mai interesează pe nimeni. Pe mine, unul, nu mă mai interesează deloc. Şi mi-a luat ceva vreme să-mi dau seama de asta. Abia când ai terminat-o cu marile adevăruri lucrurile încep să se limpezească. Să fii sincer nu înseamnă să ai curajul marilor adevăruri, ci să îţi permiţi să râzi de ele. Ca atunci când poţi, în sfârşit, să-ţi lărgeşti nodul de la cravată şi să-ţi deschei cămaşa, dupa o zi întreagă petrecută la birou. Sau ca atunci când îţi îngăduieşti un futu-ţi morţii mă-ti, în fata uşii care nu se deschide fără un brânci, după ce toată ziua ai trudit la fraze sofisticate şi politicoase. Şi dacă te gândeşti un pic, tot secolul XX despre asta e. Despre cum s-o termini odată cu marile adevăruri. De asta este şi secolul marilor convulsii. Dar amintiţi-vă că primii care au îndrăznit să schiţeze măcar acest gest, au fost imediat arşi de vii, traşi în ţeapă, daţi afară din societate de preoţii seriozităţii. Când am chef să mă amuz, mă gândesc la cât de oribilă trebuie să fie viaţa cuiva incapabil să-şi închipuie aceste mătuşi bătrâne în pielea goală. Zbârcite şi scofâlcite ca nişte mere coapte, marile adevăruri, odată dezbrăcate de dantele, sînt mai mult decât hilare. Nimic nu e mai sănătos decât râsul sau ironia. Tocmai de asta umorul este privit adeseori cu scepticism, căci el demaschează acest striptease invers. A râde e un păcat. A fi neserios e un lucru grav, căci atentează la structura de rezistenţă a realităţii. Nu cunosc decât o singură formă serioasă de ironie, ironia socratică, dar ea e un caz special. Nu e exclus să fi fost contrafăcută de Platon, unul dintre primii mari „stripperi”, in acest sens rasturnat, ai literaturii şi filozofiei deopotrivă.Cel mai mare „creator de modă”.

 Din câte ştiu eu, există un sigur tip care a demascat această lungă istorie de deghizări, acest interminabil bal mascat, căruia i se spune ba literatură, ba filozofie, ba altfel, în funcţie de cât de mult ne luăm în serios. Unu’ care, pe patul de moarte, îşi închipuia că e în acelaşi timp dionisos şi cristos; care scria cel mai bine în timpul acceselor de nebunie, şi care a reuşit să ia totul peste picior, într-un mare stil; şi care a futut-o pe soră-sa, şi-a zis că filozofează cu ciocanul. Dar s-o spunem şi pe asta: nu i-a folosit la nimic, căci tot a murit. Dacă nu cumva a muri e o dovadă peremptorie a simţului umorului. Ce dacă nu i-a „folosit” la nimic? Sau poate tocmai de asta i-a folosit cu vârf şi îndesat. Ascendentul umorului asupra seriozotăţii este tocmai caracterul lui gratuit. Câţi nu se vor grăbi se revendice fatalismul existenţei în favoarea sofismelor seriozităţii? Toţi filozofii au văzut în moarte marele adevăr de care s-au legat cu funii groase de silogisme, şi au înfruntat sirenele precum Ulise altădată în drum spre adevărul ultim, în drum spre Itaca. Căci funiile cu care fusese legat Ulise de catarg, dacă chiar vreţi să ştiţi, erau făcute din linţoliul pe care îl deşira Penelopa, ca să-l poată ţese la nesfârşit. Adevărul şi neadevărul iubirii lor. Dar n-o să vă plictisesc acum cu interpretări sofisticate la epopei greceşti. Întorcându-mă la chestiunea morţii, ajunge să spun că unii gânditori au luat-o atât de în serios încât i-am crezut şi eu. De fapt, toată lumea bună a filozofiei şi a literaturii s-a chinuit să îmbrace moartea în cea mai sobră ţinută cu putinţă, când, dacă stai să te gândeşti, moartea e hohotul de râs de la care nimeni nu se poate abţine. Odată şi-odată tot se termină cu seriozitatea. Ba chiar în cel mai scurt timp. Nu poţi lua nimic în serios, atunci când ştii sigur că urmează să se termine.Sfârşitul are nu numai ceva tragic, dar şi ceva profund ludic. De asta, în fond, tragedia şi comedia sînt unul şi acelaşi lucru. Gândul acesta al sfârşitului a fost însă atât de insuportabil încât oamenii au inventat eternitatea. Nu există nimic mai serios de atât. Creştinismul este prin excelenţă o religie a seriozităţii, pentru că este religia care a creat cel mai riguros şi mai complex concept de viaţă veşnică. În creştinism, moartea însăşi e pusă în slujba eternităţii, şi este recuperată dialectic de logica seriozităţii. Nu-mi pot închipui nimic mai de prost gust decât acest happy-end universal, scos dintr-un film american de mâna a treia. În America, cinematograful şi biserica sunt, la limită, interşanjabile; primul vine în continuarea celei de-a doua şi o desăvârşeşte. Filmul cu gangsteri aduşi pe calea cea dreaptă de un băieţaş cinstit e un soi de sequel al noului testament. Alte măşti, aceeaşi piesă, vorba poetului. Pentru marea majoritate a timpului, omenirea a fost complet lipsită de simţul umorului. Şi nu de puţine ori, seriozitatea a adus-o în pragul colapsului. Printre altele, una dintre cele mai „serioase”, consecinţe ale acestei grave carenţe, a fost Auschwitz-ul. Ştiţi, locul ăla unde intrai pe uşă şi ieşeai pe horn. Ultimul loc despre care ai putea spune că e amuzant. Ultimul loc în care te-ar putea bufni râsul. Şi asta nu pentru că a muri ar fi lipsit de umor, ci pentru că a ucide este. Mai ales când o faci sistematic, cu seriozitate şi determinare. A ucide înseamnă a-l obliga pe celălalt sa-şi ia moartea în serios. Şi nu numai pe celălalt, ci pe toţi ceilalţi. Tocmai când am fi avut, în sfârşit, şansa de a ne elibera de morga seriozităţii, ea ne-a fost furată. E şi asta o ironie a sorţii.

 Când începi să o scrii, viaţa se goleşte de adevăruri. Ca un pahar din care începi să bei. A-ţi trăi viaţa pentru a o povesti înseamnă a o trăi degeaba. S-a grăbit unul să pună titlul ăsta unei cărţi. Cartea e bună în ciuda titlului. A-ţi trăi viaţa pentru a o povesti înseamnă să crezi că există un fel de sens al vieţii, undeva, dincolo de ea. Inseamna a vedea literatura ca pe un fel de religie, înlocuind o formă patalogică de seriozitate, cu alta. A fost unul care a scris o carte pe tema asta, şi cartea s-a vândut evident foarte bine. A prins nu numai la public, ci şi la cei obişnuiţi cu tratatele logico-filozofice. Şi după ce-a scris-o, plin de seriozitate, într-un gest profund teatral, ne-a implorat să nu mai scriem despre ce ar trebui trecut sub tăcere. A făcut şi el un striptease invers, dar a băgat un alt text, cu aruncatul scării. Adică, vedeţi voi, nu poţi ajunge la marile adevăruri decât cu scara, şi după ce ai ajuns la ele, trebuie să o arunci. Cum ar veni, să te apuci să tai copacul, după ce, în sfârşit, te-ai urcat în el. Levitaţi, dragilor, dacă puteţi. Şi în timpul ăsta meditaţi la sensul vieţii, că dă foarte bine. Bun, dar de ce să arunci scara?, veţi spune. Acum, asta e treabă serioasă, de seminar de filozofie. Dar dacă vreţi un răspuns scurt, iata-l. Scara trebuie aruncată, pentru că, de fapt, nu există. N-a existat de la bun început. A fost numai iluzia unei scări, iar acum, la sfârşit, autorul ne constrânge să constatăm acest lucru. Cum să ieşi afară din viaţă? Cum să ajungi dincolo de ea, la sensul ei? Bună, asta, nu? Cu o doză minimă de umor, nu există nimic despre care să nu se poată scrie. Despre ceea ce nu se poate scrie ar trebui să se fluiere. Când am terminat-o cu marile adevăruri, am terminat-o şi cu sensul vieţii. Adică am văzut cât de hilare sînt ambele.