“It didn’t take me long to make friends with the museum guard, a muscular young red-haired Irish Bostonian named Bobby Sheridan. He sussed me out on my first vigil in front of the ivory carving. After I had been sitting in front of it for about an hour he came over to ask me if I was OK. I told him I was fine, very well actually, except for having a minor mental illness. I explained to him that I had obsessive compulsive disorder and couldn’t touch anything, and also that I didn’t have to work because my mother had died and I had inherited some money, enough to live for a while on but not really a lot. I explained to him that I was planning to spend many months in his museum, not touching anything of course but mainly just looking at a particular single piece of art, namely the carving of Abraham and Isaac that was in front of me. And I also let him know that I always wore pretty much the same clothes but that I changed my clothes and had a shower every day, and that I was very careful about cleanliness as part of my OCD. I drew his attention to some of the things I appreciated so much about the ivory carving, especially the ample bosom and translucent wings of the tiny angel.”
One of the main characters in my novel, Greg, is writing a book based on his master's thesis, called Bear-breed Spirit Depth: Duchamp, semantic multiplicity, and the artistic life.
Greg edits and writes very slowly. He feels no need to ever finish writing the book. He is happy to spread his delight in working on Bear-Breed Spirit Depth across decades.
Perhaps one of Marcel Duchamp's most obscure pieces is his Door, 11 rue Larrey. This was a door that that Duchamp had a carpenter construct in 1927 in the corner of a room in Duchamp's apartment. Because of this location, the door closed one entrance when it opened the other, thereby contradicting the French proverb Il faut qu'une porte soit ouverte ou fermée ['A door must be either open or closed'].
This reminds me of the fact that Duchamp once wrote in a letter to the French poet André BretonPour moi il y a autre chose que oui, non et indifférent - C’est par example l’absence d’investigations de ce genre ['For me there is something other than yes, no, and indifferent - there is for example the absence of investigations of this kind.']
I enjoy reading and re-reading Emil Cioran, the Romanian/French 'philosopher of despair'. Although he is certainly not as funny as Samuel Beckett (whom Cioran knew quite well) and not as open to the possibility of grace as Simone Weil (whom Cioran apparently never met), he shares that lightness of being that goes along with a deep appreciation for "the inconvenience of existence" (his own term). Here's a sampler of his work.
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In major perplexities, try to live as if history were done with and to react like a monster riddled by serenity. The Trouble With Being Born
The intrinsic value of a book does not depend on the importance of its subject (else the theologians would prevail, and mightily), but on the manner of approaching the accidental and the insignificant, of mastering the infinitesimal. The Trouble With Being Born
A moment comes when it seems futile to choose between metaphysics and amateurism, between the unfathomable and the anecdote. The Trouble With Being Born
The ideal being? An angel ravaged by humor. The Trouble With Being Born
I shall be reconciled to myself only when I accept death the way one accepts an invitation to a dinner: with amused distaste. Drawn And Quartered
A book should open old wounds, even inflict new ones. A book should be a danger. Drawn And Quartered
The only explanation for the creation of the world is God's fear of solitude. In other words, our role is to amuse our maker. Tears And Saints
The dead center of existence: when it is all the same to you whether you read a newspaper article or think of God. Tears And Saints
No man of vice can be condemned unless he ceases to look upon vice as a pretext and turns it into a goal. On The Heights of Despair
One of the great delusions of the average man is to forget that life is death's prisoner. On The Heights of Despair