jueves, 29 de abril de 2010


At exactly 3:36 a.m., staring naked at the screen of his computer, he started writing on the native tongue of James Joyce. He didn't have too much to say, but maybe, perhaps, if he gave this possibility a chance, it could expand the comprehension he had on subjects such as dead and sex.

He thought if he could write on the native tongue of Marcel Proust and Fiodor Dostoiewsky, Kawabata will be a step closer. Why? Actually he didn't know why. The one thing he knows how to do right it's that one thing where the sexual and mortal nature of men means anything and everything at the same time: The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

It's rather simple said to himself. So he type these words into the dark screen background with old lookin' green font letters and realize that no matter what he did he would live his axiomatic life by the imperative standard of an ethics of lust and desire.

Naked as he stands in front of the computer, when he can freely touch and grab himself, he can see himself hoping and prayin' that his sexual phantasies collide in some way with his own dead.

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