Apart from Nausea by Sartre, and a couple of abortive attempts at reading Kafka, I stayed far away from existential literature. No particular reason - I guess I didn't get angst-ridden till I was in my mid twenties, and by that time I decided that I might as well escape into something pleasant if I must read.
Not sure what struck me after ten years, but found myself looking up Kierkegaard the other day. I loved something I found - this is spoken by a character in Repetition:
How did I get into the world? Why was I not asked about it and why was I not informed of the rules and regulations but just thrust into the ranks as if I had been bought by a peddling shanghaier of human beings? How did I get involved in this big enterprise called actuality? Why should I be involved? Isn't it a matter of choice? And if I am compelled to be involved, where is the manager—I have something to say about this. Is there no manager? To whom shall I make my complaint?
I'm not this grumbly yet, but I so hear this guy!
1 comment:
hmph.. just because they are published authors!
Post a Comment