Our Poor Laddie

A brief interlude while we contemplate the eternal question of whether these are sour grapes or sweet lemons.

A perceptive or insolent reader asks if the pathetic (my word) neediness expressed in yesterday’s whining (my word) post is another tiresome (my word) instance of "the cyclical depression about lack of readers or worthy commenters you are prone to every couple of years?” 

Don’t be ridiculous. First of all, it's more like every six months. But it’s a bit more acute this time, what with Gerard’s situation. How many OG long form bloggers are left? And what do I win even if I do prevail in my grim struggle to outlast Lileks?

In these cycles, I always revert back to Davila, reclusive OG master of the short form. 

Come to think of it, I also go back to a conversation along these lines with a coworker that must have taken place fifteen years ago. Can’t recall the exact words, but it was something like Do you really want more attention? Except the emphasis was more on the “you” (of all people) than the “attention.” In other words, on Bob's peculiar personality style. 

For just as I waver between megalomania and self-pity, I also waver between exhibitionism and contemplative withdrawal from the world. The former is fine while it lasts, but I couldn’t function without the latter. 

People who meet me in the flesh tend to be surprised that I’m not always such a flamboyant extrovert. I am, but only in way analogous to one of those flying fish. It’s remarkable to see them soar through the air, but nevertheless, 99% of their time is spent under water, away from the light and air. 

Likewise, my peculiar lifestyle requires a great deal of time spent aimlessly paddling about in the ocean of being. Don't be fooled by the brief aerial exhibition.  

Here are a few of our home aphorisms, or at least permanent rationalizations:

We need to write simultaneously as if no one whatsoever will read us and as if everyone will read us.

To write honestly for others, one must write fundamentally for oneself.

He who longs to write for more than a hundred readers capitulates. 

To write for posterity is not to worry whether they will read us tomorrow, it is to aspire to a certain quality of writing. Even if no one reads us.

There is the occasional convergence of artistry and commercial success, but

No one is important for long without becoming an idiot.

Careful there, Jordan. Next stop Crowderville. 

I think of the Rolling Stones or Paul McCartney, who peaked over half a century ago, and since then have been coasting on self-parody. It seems that only a disdainful crank like Van Morrison escapes the pull. 

My coworker’s comment goes to the fact that supposing I did have more attention, I’d probably freeze with self-consciousness. Trolls are amusing, but 100,000 of them might be a bit much. One might find oneself reacting to them, when the reactive mind is one of those things that just don’t mix with the contemplative life:

Nothing is more stupid than to disdain stupidity when we solicit its applause.

Indeed,

Those who write in order to convince always lie. In order not to entrap, one must write with a certain disdain.

I disdain these grapes and those non-readers! 

I don’t doubt that Davila rolled this way, so he is always an inspiration. Here are some of the ways he dealt with the attention of imbeciles:

--Let us not give stupid opinions the pleasure of upsetting us.

--The partisans of a cause are often the best arguments against it.

--It is enough to know nothing more than that certain beings have adopted an idea to know that it is false.

And

When everyone wants to be something, it is only decent to be nothing.

Done!

One last ode to Our Poor Laddie:

I'm a quiet living man,
who prefers to spend the evening in the silence of his room,
who likes an atmosphere as restful as
an undiscovered tomb.
A pensive man am I, of philosophical joys,
who likes to meditate, contemplate,
far from humanity's mad inhuman noise.
A quiet living man....

But let a reader in your life!