u/LowerProfit9709

“Memory is a sickness. A word pops up that reveals entire neighborhoods. Ghastly architecture. You stare into crowds of people: futile to approach them! The day is over.” Ninety-eight out of a hundred people had a compulsive delusion with which they fell asleep and woke up. “Everyone is continually wading through the depth of an idea, some a long way down, others even further down. Until the darkness shows them the futility of what they’re attempting; police cells with their afternoon quiet, full of sleep and the reek of prisoners. One man thinks pretty much what the man next to him thinks: the human porridge of the traffic accident, weeks ago, or years. Cornfields like whirlpools: forests, meadows, country roads, sections of fairs, torn apart by the imagination, rivers rumble in slices, workers pull long blades through the brains of paupers.” There were quite literally ancient dreams, a so-called “science of simple people.” A law by which all things permanently repeat themselves, while at the same time being unrepeatable. Everything at once in a cycle of permanent return, and terminally entropic. Joy attracts more joy, sins attract sins, exhibition exhibition, love love. “What connects me to myself is the thing that is furthest away from me,” and “time is no means with which to engage with time,” and “I am a victim of my theories, and at the same time their controller.”

Just re-applied for my former position as a French Theory specialist at the CIA but they rejected my application and referred me to Heritage Foundation for a newly minted position as a Schmitt-Agamben-Dugin scholar in residence????

Male Murakami fans be like "why doesn't the street hooker I just picked up from a red light district have a quirky personality, listen to jazz and read Hegel???"

The vegetation was typical for the area, thriving on leached-out slag and crumbling scrap metal; neither useful nor beautiful, it seemed to have sprung up only to cover the wounds of the terrain…or only—I subjected it to continuous scrutiny—to invade my dreams with the gloomy union of its gray webs and the fog…nightmares that recurred in reality, nightmares in which the matted layer of vegetation concealed a core of indefinable glow; as though in some building deeper in the ruins, where the workers’ quarters must have been, a light were still intact…or the shrubs wove to spin into my thoughts a gray net of bristling sorrow…to weave over burning wounds in the delta of my thoughts…to knit over the fact that my strange interest in bad places was an unacknowledged, unclear interest in our origins… because I had not actually experienced the affronts that went with the soil we had sprung from.—On reflection, we were actually exiles. Of course only in the indefinite way in which all our names were sheer hubris…all our names, titles, and nouns. So we were not exiles based on some neat, solid idea, but exiles out of instability…out of ineptitude, ignorance, antisocial tendencies; we hadn’t been torn from our roots, we hadn’t lost our rights, we were in exile because we’d never had roots or rights; we’d never even sought to find them, perhaps we constantly sought the world’s most noxious regions in order to rest in our rootlessness; like gray vegetation, feeding on the ground’s nutrients but giving nothing back, we settled in the desolate provinces that were the strongholds of evil, we settled between slag and scrap where we could run riot, rank and uncontested. We had always sought the places of darkness—always the smoke, as others seek the first bright happy memory of childhood—always sought the shunting shadows of transition, ever wary of being recognized, for our lives were but a semilegal affair…and we sought out the most wretched work, in cellars, cesspits, and shafts, lowly nocturnal tasks; we cleansed the blemishes, we scrubbed the slaughterhouses, we licked clean the word of mouth, and with the looks of thieves we pocketed our wages. I must have learned of these things when, in search of what harmonized with me, I was drawn to the town’s edge where the rubbish began, or to the villages beyond the town, on the periphery where the town’s refuse blossomed, the metastases of industry; there notions of my future reality had burgeoned…they’d been growing for nearly thirty years, and for as many years I’d abandoned my lead soldiers to their hopeless trench war in the flowerpots and gone out late in the day to sully myself with visions of my future.

https://preview.redd.it/x71txunn3fdh1.jpg?width=1080&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=cc4fe420c8b9e802862649e1d7cd8e8b28c73fbe

Pennis And Also Dicke and Balls