Monday, September 20, 2010

Inanimate objects evoke way too much of my sympathy

I wrote this late last night after tearing the stamped sheet of due dates (now far obsolete) from the back of a copy of Kobo Abe's The Box Man belonging to the library.

"I tore it out without hesitation; there is always an allure to these bureaucratic relics bearing the marks of an era of rubber stamps and card catalogues.

But now I am struck with a sense of guilt. I feel I have robbed this poor, worn book of its history, wrenching memories from its back page and reducing its identity to nothing more than pure physicality and an anonymous electronic record. I have doomed this book to exist as an hermetic object, undoing its grip on the past and forcing it to exist in a "present" (whatever that present may be), rather than in those many, simultaneous, mysterious pasts it until recently could lay claim to inhabiting. It is nothing but a Doctor with a broken TARDIS.

Poor dislocated, disenfranchised soul.

You will get these back."

I felt so genuinely, viscerally bad for a goddamned book I'd wronged. What the balls, dude?

What the balls.

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