What is this bland contentedness? The last thing I expect to experience is bland contentedness, and the satisfaction of a job well done. Absolutely no desire to write, not here, nor elsewhere. No desire whatsoever. No misery, and therefore no hope of the 'merciful surplus' that would lift me out of misery by giving me writing.
Too content to search around in my memory for another of the great list of humiliations. Write an anti-'esteem indicators' said W., referring to that section of the R.A.E. form where you write about your invitations to speak at conferences, the number of articles published etc. Write indicators of your humiliation, said W., write how you dragged yourself down and dragged others down. W. is thinking of himself. Write about that bloke who says I've been going downhill since I started hanging round with you, he says.
Write about that says W., and I told him I thought of that a long time ago, but I'm too content, life is pleasant, all is well, there's nothing in me that wants expunging, there's nothing that asks to be written, there's not the eternal return of memories of old humiliations. All is well, the light falls equally on everyone. All well, the light falls gently on each and on me as one of the others. I detest this contentedness and everything written out of contentedness. I hate even-handedness and patience.
Where is it, the old misery? Where is the old misery and the old desire for the 'merciful surplus'? I could certainly count on that, the old misery. In the morning, there was always the old misery. Rising, I thought, there it is again, the old misery, so I'd better have a coffee and write about the old misery. Yes, that's how it was up until a few days ago, up in the morning, another day, white and bland, so I go into the kitchen to make coffee and turn on the computer and open up the 'Post Introduction' box.
Until a few days ago, yes, not so long ago, that was the beginning of my day, always early, always too early, because I wake up too early, I can never help that, I never sleep well along, I'm always up too early, and then I think, I might as well begin, and I go and make coffee. Up early, too early, making coffee in the dawn, making coffee in the half-light, there's the yard, the ugly little yard, and my damp little kitchen with great patches of damp on the walls and damp in the air.
Yes, first thing, up and to the damp kitchen and then coffee and the same old misery, the same happy misery, because it is always the beginning of something, because from misery, there is at least the peculiar energy of disgust. Out of misery, yes, there is the need to give disgust its head, to allow it to find its target, its object, and to set it on its way. From the first, misery, the same old misery, and then the desire, by writing, to give disgust its target and unleash disgust and let it run by writing to its target. The old misery, the old disgust, and then the quarry it tears apart. Joy of that tearing apart. Joy that misery will allow humiliations to arise from the past. Joy that there are always other reasons to feel excluded.
Yes, that's how it was, day after day, week after week, the evening and night spent in the pub and the next morning, wake up too early, the old misery and the desire to escape that misery, but always the faith in that escape, which passes by way of disgust. In the morning, arise, misery, then disgust, then writing, then the happiness of having written, then the happiness that misery had been put to work.
First of all, misery, bountiful misery, the riches of misery. From the first, misery, reliable, dependable as it bore within it a kind of energy. Nothing better than that first, energetic misery, disgust tugging at the leash, coffee by the window, computer on, Post Introduction opened, then disgust unleashed, disgust running to tear its quarry apart. Disgust off the leash, off by writing to tear its quarry apart. Beatitude of disgust, beatitude of misery. Beatitude of misery-writing and disgust-writing.
But today, contentedness; today, a new tranquility, there's no need to write, nothing asks to be written, there's no disgust. Today, no disgust, except that I've worked up because there is no disgust. No disgust except at the absence of disgust. No disgust except that there is no disgust, only contentedness, that vile, stupid contentedness in league with the vile stupidity of the world. No disgust to carry me from sentence to sentence and from paragraph to paragraph. No bridge across the morning.
Already I'm failing, already, the post is giving way as I write. Find your way to the end, I tell myself, find the end. You can always do that, you know it's coming, but you're not there yet, not this morning, I tell myself. Find the end of the post, I tell myself, it's not far off, but find it by way of writing and the energy of writing. The end is there, waiting to be written, but only as it was born at the inception of writing. The end was there, but you'll discover it only by writing, by impatience. For the way opens by impatience and disgust.
Impatience and disgust, that's how it opens, that's how it begins and how it is carried forward. Impatience, disgust, so does the bridge open, so does sentence bear to sentence and paragraph leap across blank space to paragraph. That's how it begins, leaning out of itself, depending on itself, trusting only disgust, launched in misery and calling out to misery. But contentedness is creeping back. Contentedness is holding out against misery.
If it's not written in one sweep, it's no good, I know that. If it's not written in one single movement, in a single gesture, it's failed, I know that. A single gesture, given out of itself, given in writing by disgust, otherwise nothing. No pauses, no let-up, no surfing, no breakfast, no brushing of teeth and no showering, none of that. It's dawn and time to work, and work is everything, disgust must be unleashed. No getting up to wander around, no television, no food, just an empty stomach and bile.
Write about the history of your humiliations, says W. Write your humiliation-indicators, says W. Write about that, says W., and whine, I like it when you whine. But my memory is not working. My disgust does not roam into my memory, looking for humiliations. No quarry for memory. Nothing for disgust to seek and destroy. No cross-hairs on the quarry. Write about your humiliations, says W. Write about dragging the rest of us down, says W. I've lost it, I say. Oh yeah, says W., what did you have?
The old misery, the old discontent, the old disgust and the bounty of disgust. You'll never understand it, I tell W. You just don't get it, I tell W. Who do you think you are, says W., Thomas Bernhard? Why do you do it, you're not Thomas Bernhard, says W. What, so you think you're Thomas Bernhard now? That's funny. Write about your humiliations. Write about dragging the rest of us down. That's what I was planning, I told W., I thought of it straightaway. But I can't get going, I'm too content.