This morning, I found myself on one of my semi-regular spam deletion missions (obviously a lesser email provider than the solid Gmail), and curiosity led me to open one of these unsolicited emails. Imagine my pleased surprise, then, as I found compelling prose within. And pictures of ‘whores’, but check out the prose:
What strikes me now as the most wonderful proof of my fitness, or unfitness, for the times is the fact that nothing people were writing or talking about had any real interest for me. Only the object haunted me, the separate detached, insignificant thing. It might be a part of the human body or a staircase in a vaudeville house; it might be a smokestack or a button I had found in the gutter. Whatever it was it enabled me to open up, to surrender, to attach my signature. To the life about me, to the people who made up the world I knew, I could not attach my signature. I was as definitely outside their world as a cannibal is outside the bounds of civilized society. I was filled with a perverse love of the thing-in-itself-not a philosophic attachment, but a passionate, desperately passionate hunger, as if in the discarded, worthless thing which everyone ignored there was contained the secret of my own regeneration.
I can only assume this has been lifted from a novel but, not being well read, I wouldn’t know from which exactly. I think Russ made mention a while back about spam making him come to the conclusion that his literary ability paled in comparison, and here we are. I have no idea what the ‘signature’ stuff is about, though…
throughsilver in blog 