You stole my story and something's got to be done about it.
Elliott was disarmingly bright, according to everyone who knew him, an avid reader of Dostoevsky, Kafka, Beckett, Stendhal, Freud, the Buddha, all of whom destabilized notions of identity. I think he knew how little we know about who we are. The idea comes through in lyrics. __ don__ know who I am,_ he says simply; at times he wishes he were no one. He__ a stickman shooting blanks at emptiness, living with __ne dimension dead._ He__ an invisible man with a see-through mind. He__ a junkyard full of false starts. He__ a ghost-writer, feeling hollow.
Torment Saint: The Life of Elliott Smith
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Elliott was disarmingly bright, according to everyone who knew him, an avid reader of Dostoevsky, Kafka, Beckett, Stendhal, Freud, the Buddha, all of whom destabilized notions of identity. I think he knew how little we know about who we are. The idea comes through in lyrics. __ don__ know who I am,_ he says simply; at times he wishes he were no one. He__ a stickman shooting blanks at emptiness, living with __ne dimension dead._ He__ an invisible man with a see-through mind. He__ a junkyard full of false starts. He__ a ghost-writer, feeling hollow.
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I have sat here at my desk, day after day, night after night, a blank sheet of paper before me, unable to lift my pen, trembling and weeping too.
Now I can broach the notion of suicide. It has already been felt what solution might be given. At this point the problem is reversed. It was previously a question of finding out whether or not life had to have a meaning to be lived. It now becomes clear, on the contrary, that it will be lived all the better if it has no meaning. Living an experience, a particular fate, is accepting it fully. Now, no one will live this fate, knowing it to be absurd, unless he does everything to keep before him that absurd brought to light by consciousness.
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Writing to corroborate what you already think is the essence of bad writing.
People see the cleverness of nature and suppose it's the cleverness of the animal itself but it was obvious to me that each and every segment of the animal isn't aware. How much I'd hate to live totally unaware of myself, I thought. What would be the point of living, of existing, if you weren't ever to know about it? I looked at the Fox Moth and pitied it, poor unconscious creature. But then, I supposed, at least it wouldn't be disappointed. It would never find out.