Chapter 12 eleven

Finally, folks: it's better to do nothing!Conscious inertia at its best!In short, long live the basement!As I said, I'm very jealous of normal people, but I don't want to be like him seeing the state he's in now (although I'm still jealous of him. No, no, the basement is better anyway!) In the basement At least you can... Alas!You know, what I say now is against my will!For I myself know as well as two times two makes four that it is not the basement that is good at all, but something else, something completely different, something better that I long for and can't get anyway!To hell with the basement!

Even, it would be better: that is: if only I could believe a little bit of what I am writing now.I swear to you, gentlemen, that I do not believe a word, not even a word, of what I have just written!That is to say, I believed it, but at the same time, without knowing why, I always felt and suspected that I was lying like a shoemaker. "Then why are you writing this?" you ask me. "For example, I locked you in the basement for forty years without letting you do anything. After forty years, I came to visit you again, to visit you in the basement, to see what you have become? Can a man stay and do nothing for forty years?"

"It's not shameful, and it's not condescending!" You may say to me, shaking your head contemptuously. "You yearn for life, and you yourself solve the problems of life with your confused logic. How disgusting and presumptuous your behavior is, and how frightened you are at the same time! You talk nonsense and talk nonsense. , and feel very proud that you have said some very unreasonable things, and you are constantly afraid of them, please forgive me. You insist that you are not afraid of anything, and at the same time flatter our opinions. You insist Said you were gnashing your teeth with hatred, and at the same time trying to amuse us with witty remarks. You know yourself that your witticisms are not witty, but you are evidently proud of them, and think that your witty words are perfect. You may You have suffered, but you have no respect for your own suffering. There is some truth in what you say, but your motives are not pure: out of the smallest vanity you take what you have right, take it Take your shame and make a deal... You do have something to say, but you hide your last words out of fear because you don't have the courage to say it, and you just keep pestering shamelessly And you are as timid as a mouse. You boast of your consciousness, but you can only waver, because although you are constantly using your brain, your heart is full of obscenities and robbers, it is closed, and there is no pure heart— —and no full, correct consciousness. How nagging, how tiresome, how annoying, how ostentatious you are! Lies, lies, all lies!"

Of course, all of your words are made up by me now.This also comes from the basement.I have been there for forty years, sticking to the crack of the door to eavesdrop on your words.These words came up on my own.You know, this is the only way you can think of it.So it's memorized by heart, and it sounds logical... no wonder. But are you really so credulous that it seems that these are really going to be printed and let you read them?Look, I have another task: Seriously, why should I call you "you guys," and why do I talk to you as if I really thought of you as my readers?The confession I am going to give will not be printed, nor will it ever be shown to others.At least, I haven't been so decisive yet, and I don't think I have to be so bold.But you know what: I have a fantasy in my head, and I want to make it happen anyway.That's it.

There is always something in any man's memoirs which he would not reveal to all but his own friends.There are also such things that he is unwilling to disclose to his friends, except for himself, and he must keep them secret.But in the end there were things that the man was afraid to reveal even to himself, but of which every decent man had accumulated a great deal.That is, there are even cases where the more decent the person is, the more such things there are.At least I myself have only recently made up my mind to recall some of my past adventures, which until then I have been walking around, even with a certain uneasiness in my heart.As for now, I not only recalled them, but even decided to write them out, and now I have to test myself: Can I be completely open even to myself, without being afraid to reveal the whole truth?I would like to point out in passing: Heine asserts that factual autobiography is almost impossible, that a man is bound to tell many falsehoods about himself.It seemed to him that Rousseau, for example, must have lied a lot to himself in his Confessions, and had even done so deliberately, out of vanity.I am convinced that Heine is right; I am well aware that a man sometimes invents a whole series of crimes against himself out of sheer vanity, and I am even quite aware of what kind of vanity this vanity belongs to.But Heine is speaking of a man who confesses to his readers.And I'm writing this purely for my own sake, and I want to state firmly that if I write this as if I were writing it for the reader, it's only for convenience, because it's easier for me to write it that way.It's just a form, an empty form, because I'll never have a reader.I've stated this already...

I do not wish to be bound by the wording of my Notes.No rules or systems.Write whatever comes to mind. For example: Someone will pick on what I just said and ask me: If you really don't expect to have readers, why do you now (and still write on paper) promise yourself that you don't want any order and system, and you can think of anything. What to write, wait, wait?Why do you explain it like that?Why apologize? "Isn't it weird?" I replied. There's a whole set of psychology at play here, though.Maybe because I'm nothing but a coward.It may also be because when I wrote this "Notes", I deliberately imagined that I was facing a large number of readers, so that I could speak more politely and politely.There could be a thousand reasons.

But there is still a question: for what, why did I write this "Notes"?If it's not for the readers, isn't it also possible to do this: think about it in your head, remember everything, and not put it into words? What you say is very true; but it seems more solemn to put it into words.Doing so seems to have a certain stimulating effect, allowing for more self-examination, and the writing may be more concise.Besides, I might feel better writing this out.For example, today I recall an incident that makes me feel particularly depressed.I recalled it vividly only a few days ago, and it has remained in my mind ever since, like a distressing melody of music, which I cannot get rid of.Yet it must be dispelled.I have hundreds of such memories; but sometimes one thing stands out and depresses me.I somehow believe that if I write it down, it won't haunt me anymore.Why not try it?

Finally: I feel so bored that I often do nothing.Writing "Notes" does seem to be working.It has been said that a man becomes kind and honest when he has work to do.Well, this is at least an opportunity. It's snowing today, almost wet snow, yellow and cloudy.It was also downloaded yesterday, and it has been downloaded these days.I think it was because of the rain and snow that I was able to recall the accidental story that haunts me now.In short, let's call this story "Rain and Snow".