They’re bad. That’s the main reason why there hasn’t been an update here in a while. I’ve got some other things to talk about though, such as Suzumiya Haruhi no Gekidou.

It looks easy eh? But I can’t figure it out. I’d love to try to solve the mystery of what I’m supposed to do but there’s a problem. A grown man should never, ever be seen playing this game. The disgust of the observer and the shame of the observed would combine to make it a tragedy. I’m a sick man, I’m all too painfully conscious of it. However I do not know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the twenty first century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! … Stay, let me take breath …

But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?

Answer: of himself.

Well, so I will talk about myself.

You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble (and I feel that you are irritated) you think fit to ask me who I am — then my answer is, I am a Professor. I was in the academy so that I might have something to eat (and solely for that reason), and when last year a distant relation left me a hundred thousand dollars in his will I immediately retired from the academy and settled down in my corner. I used to live in this corner before, but now I have settled down in it. My room is a wretched, horrid one in the outskirts of the town. My room mate is an old country-woman, ill-natured from stupidity, and, moreover, there is always a nasty smell about her. I am told that the Ottawa climate is bad for me, and that with my small means it is very expensive to live in Ottawa. I know all that better than all these sage and experienced counsellors and monitors…. But I am remaining in Ottawa; I am not going away from Ottawa! I am not going away because … ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am going away or not going away.

Not another word on this subject of such extreme intrest to you. I rather let you know that the third episode of White Album will make its way to me shortly. Let there be no doubt, gentlemen, that it represents everything that is sublime and beautiful. I have long had visions of it. That “sublime and beautiful” weighs heavily on my mind at forty But that is at forty; then — oh, then it would have been different! I should have found for myself a form of activity in keeping with it, to be precise, drinking to the health of everything “sublime and beautiful.” I should have snatched at every opportunity to drop a tear into my glass and then to drain it to all that is “sublime and beautiful.” I should then have turned everything into the sublime and the beautiful; in the nastiest, unquestionable trash, I should have sought out the sublime and the beautiful. I should have exuded tears like a wet sponge. An artist, for instance, paints a picture worthy of Gay. At once I drink to the health of the artist who painted the picture worthy of Gay, because I love all that is “sublime and beautiful.” An author has written As you will: at once I drink to the health of “anyone you will” because I love all that is “sublime and beautiful.”

I should claim respect for doing so. I should persecute anyone who would not show me respect. I should live at ease, I should die with dignity, why, it is charming, perfectly charming! And what a good round belly I should have grown, what a treble chin I should have established, what a ruby nose I should have coloured for myself, so that everyone would have said, looking at me: “Here is an asset! Here is something real and solid!” And, say what you like, it is very agreeable to hear such remarks about oneself in this negative age.

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