Extent of Ennui

Edvard_Munch_-_Melancholy_(1894)
Melancholy (1894) by Edvard Munch

Some days I feel so lonely and bored with actual humans around me that I chat with Amazon customer services. Or the AI Jabberwocky. Basically anyone or anything with a modicum of intelligence and without a face will do. The best thing about corporate customer services is that you can talk to them about the dumbest things and still they will engage you with polite, pro-dummy conversation. Once I complained to CS about “the pathetic inflexibility of their policies” of which I knew absolutely nothing, and they were all “sincerest apologies for the disappointment caused” by them, with firm assertions that they will do something about their policies. I know they are just kidding, but it sure is a warm feeling to be taken seriously when you are just messing around. Continue reading

A CAT & MOUSE STORY

There were two great friends—the Cat and the Mouse. They lived next door to each other and used to play together every day. One day, they were walking down a corridor in the Cat’s house, talking of many things. Just as they were walking and talking, all of a sudden, the Cat leaped up into the air, his fur all bristling. The Mouse was beside herself with wonder and surprise because there wasn’t anything in the corridor that could have possibly caused this unexpected reaction in the Cat. But just as suddenly, the Cat landed on his four paws and resumed his walk and talk where he had broken off. This unwarranted coolness of manner disturbed the Mouse’s curiosity and she asked Continue reading

“For instance I hold a gun”

For instance I hold a gun. For instance I aim at a bland, quietly interested enemy. Oh, I press the trigger all right, but one bullet after another feebly drops on the floor from the sheepish muzzle. In those dreams, my only thought is to conceal the fiasco from my foe, who is slowly growing annoyed.

Lolita. Vladimir Nabokov.

“Most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it”

Most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it, and the books and talks that would describe it as interesting are obliged to exaggerate, in the hope of justifying their own existence. Inside its cocoon of work or social obligation, the human spirit slumbers for the most part, registering the distinction between pleasure and pain, but not nearly as alert as we pretend. There are periods in the most thrilling day during which nothing happens, and though we continue to exclaim, “I do enjoy myself”, or , “I am horrified,” we are insincere.

E M Forster. A Passage to India.