Reading Louis Aragon, Paris Peasant (1926). Immensely enjoying the switches from concepts to personifications throughout the book, the distanced gaze, the parody, the sense of nothingness beneath and the subsequent sense of playfulness with language (found, distorted, exaggerated) that can only be enacted by not taking this whole writing thing too seriously. Or: taking it very seriously because it only can exist if you decide so.
oh, yes, there is some sound here too. a sound that can only exist in thoughts and words though. the sound of the sense of the useless.



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