Directory of Lost Causes (By Quentin S. Crisp)

I am not a professional writer

Well, I thought I would at least try out the new Opera, though I have little to say, and really I wanted to get into the habit of only writing posts when I have prepared some sort of substantial message. This will have to be an exception. No doubt there will be others.

I find myself utterly sick of the world at the moment, and, amongst other things, sick of the writing scene on whose fringes I have lurked now for some years. This sickness has stirred up my memory and prompted me to recall an interview with one Felipe Alfau, that I first read via a link on the message board of Mark Samuels. I hope that Mark will not mind if I mention publicly that he is a friend of mine, and that I rather admire the fact that he has far less of an Internet presence than myself, and seems far less concerned about promoting his writing than I am, and yet has garnered a greater reputation. I wish this were always the case, but it seems only to be the case in small, isolated and relative ways such as this. Most of the time, it is the pushiest who gain the greatest praise. I am reminded of the opening of Ligotti's novella, 'My Work is Not Yet Done':

I had always been afraid. However, as self-serving as this may sound, I never believed this to be a cause for shame or regret, even though intolerable suffering may ensue from such a trait. It seemed to me that the finest people, as people go, cannot help but betray a fair portion of fear and insecurity, even full-blown panic. On the other hand, someone must have a considerable dose of the swine in their make-up to get through even a single day unafflicted by trepidations of one sort or another, not to mention those who go out of their way to court dangerous encounters, fearlessly calling attention to themselves, figuratively waving their arms and declaring to everyone within range, "Hey, look at me. I'm up here. See what I can do. I'm the one you have to knock down. I'm the one."

Of course, there is a measure of beast's blood in anyone who aspires to maintain a place in the world, anyone who lacks that ultimate decency to remove themselves from the herd either by violence to themselves or total capitulation to their dread. It's simply a matter of degree.



And this reminds me in turn of a story told to me by another friend. He was at some sort of official dinner - the kind where they bring around wine things to nibble on trays. I don't know the circumstances, but the Japanese emperor was to make an appearance at this dinner. When the announcement was made of the arrival of the emperor, everyone lined up to greet him. However, not everyone could be at the front as the emperor passed by. My friend found himself amongst a crowd of respectable men in suits, pushing and shoving each other violently in order to get to the front and greet a monarch that they would probably talk about contemptuously later. My friend, sickened by it, went and sat in a chair in the corner and lit up a cigarette.

And this is all that human society will ever be, for all eternity. And I am sickened that I sometimes feel the need to elbow my way forward - as I do with this blog - to the front, to grab people's attention, just to tell them how sickening I find all this shoving to the front to gain attention. I wish I had never been born to be a part of it, because sometimes I feel unable just to look on from a chair in the corner.

Anyway, that is why I aspire to a contempt for it all of the degree shown by Felipe Alfau in this interview. Unfortunately, I usually seem to fail.