Penny
for them?: An Homage in Imitation of Hervé Le Tellier
I was thinking how the
rise of atheism will only help to serve capitalist bastardry.
I was thinking I cannot
understand the logic of wanting to sire children.
I was thinking I have
never been seriously impacted by a change of government.
I was thinking the more
I read the harder it becomes to appreciate truly adequate
craftsmanship.
I was thinking how my
ineptness at living seriously impaired your thirst for living.
I was thinking whether
Christine Brooke-Rose might have had fun in the Oulipo, and whether
her refusal to participate was a rather English and arch decision.
I was thinking how the
malleability of the future should be embraced, provided one has
reliable support beams.
I was thinking whether
my attempts to become an intellectual will bring me as much happiness
as perpetually clowning around.
I was thinking how I
never wanted our relationship to evolve beyond the nostalgia of our
first two years together.
I was thinking how
killable sexual fantasies might be if their attendant smells were
introduced.
I was thinking the more
you write, the more the right words materialise, and how ironic it
was that I changed the last word of this thought when transferring
from notepad to laptop.
I was thinking that
Will Self resembles Gogol’s remark from ‘The Nose’ of Ivan
Ivanovich’s head as “a radish with the tail pointing down”.
I was thinking how
other writers save pertinent quotes on their hard drives in the event
they may one day need a fitting epigraph.
I was thinking how my
working class upbringing will always leave me feeling a charlatan
around literary people.
I was thinking how my
girlfriend may be pretending to sleep as I write these pearls in bed
beside her.
I was thinking when I
told you I had published a story, your first enquiry was about the
fee, not the content.
I was thinking how
unapt it was my girlfriend said in her sleep: “no books for you
today.”
I was thinking how
depressing it is that my writing friends continue to produce prose in
conventional forms, and how I must pretend to find their success
pleasing, and how much more envious I would be if they published a
formally inventive novel to acclaim.
I was thinking I will
never have an agent.
I was thinking I will
never make enough from writing to pay even two months rent.
I was thinking I could
never render you or our time together unsentimentally in prose.
I was thinking how
non-writers patronise writers struggling to support themselves with
their work and how much pleasure is taken in their failing to do so.
I was thinking how an
unwritten rule in social conversation is never to speak in sentences
over 30 seconds long.
I was thinking I am
unsure if I find Courtney Bartnett’s music irritating or
infectious.
I was thinking how
pathetic it is when I resent attractive female writers for being both
attractive and talented.
I was thinking how
almost everyone resents brazenly displayed intelligence.
I was thinking a friend
of mine’s well-polished anecdotes might be rehearsed beforehand in
the mirror.
I was thinking how
important it is we can read together for hours in bed.
I was thinking I love
my own company too much to sustain a long-term relationship.
I was thinking how
fucking banal these thoughts might read to an outsider.
I was thinking how I
have never met an unboring drunk.
I was thinking how
little people care about social graces.
I was thinking I wasted
£50 to watch, from a balcony a mile from the stage, a teensy
Morrissey performing an uninspired set.
I was thinking how
passionate love often struggles to transcend a fondness for shit
novels and corny music.
I was thinking I will
always be poor, and whether this should particularly bother me.
I was thinking only
writers would have the arrogance to believe people might want to read
a stream of their semi-varnished thoughts.
I was thinking I have
1325 Goodreads followers and hardly any of them wish to discuss books
with me.
I was thinking to
maintain most of my friendships, I have to engineer 90% of our
meetings, and whether this reflects more on my desirability as friend
then on my friends’ laziness for planning.
I was thinking of you,
whoever you may be.
