I like what Stephen King says about writing and telepathy. The writer puts it to the page, you get it, perhaps years later, it sinks in. If that’s what he’s saying. I think I have it right. So King and I are sharing telepathy? I’m receiving it… That’s the beauty of publishing, whatever its form. The beauty of writing kills me. I guess that’s why I attempt it and others, just a few, read it and tell me I’m doing the right thing. I’m not pleasing everybody or trying to please everybody, so I know it gets slighted here and there; nor is it really promoted or . . . Because it’s hard. Writing is hard as hell. I can’t do it. When I’m here, this is something else. But if you ask me to write, I can’t to save my life. Yet I can. I sometimes get it onto the page and it hits gold. The other night when our teacher asked us to write out a quick story, I thought I would freeze. Instead an idea came through. When I read the thing to a small crowd there, I looked up and they were smiling. The one girl said she felt like an asshole. Man . . . So why can’t I write about Dostoevsky? Or Stephen King for that matter?
You correct me if you can.
Writing is open ended. This is not a formal classroom. We shall learn together. I write a line about Dostoevsky, you go out, read Dostoevsky, prove my line wrong. If that’s your thing. I’ll place your line next to mine for others to see.
I’m learning here.
Anti-Semite and Jew
Jean Paul Sartre is addressing the character (anti-Semite) in society that harbors hatred within and projects it outward, seeking the object, and reveling in hatred of that object feverishly once it has been found. He dubs anti-Semitism a “poor man’s snobbery.” What else can it be that one chooses to be this way, to stay this way, closes himself off from new experiences, becomes hardened, feared by others, impervious, the impenetrable stone?
The anti-Semite is essentially boring with cobwebs in his brain of so-called tradition. He has nothing better to do than hate an entire group of people, and therefore is an absolute stranger to reason.
The anti-Semite has no illusions about what he is. He considers himself an average man, modestly average, basically mediocre. This man fears every kind of solitariness, that of the genius as much as that of the murderer; he is the man of the crowd. However small his stature, he takes every precaution to make it smaller, lest he stand out from the herd and find himself face to face with himself. He has made himself an anti-Semite because that is something one cannot be alone.
People are ruined by boredom.
Sartre is an elegant writer, and has covered this topic thoroughly. I agree with him, but would like to add to it and paint the picture of non-racists walking around with bits and pieces of racism in them unknowingly. I once wrote this in a poem: [I’m] trying to understand people that say, “I’m not racist, but . . . blah, blah, blah,” dropping grocery lists on me like it’s going to snow tomorrow. Believe me you’re much safer saying, “I fear I have a few strands of racism in me just for being in this place in history.” The idea is, it’s very easy to say, “Oh, that’s not me. I’m not racist. It’s rednecks in the boondocks who are racist…” and yet somehow you hold within negative feelings and sentiments and ignorant generalizations that will eventually leap out of you one way or another.
If you say, for example, making a racist joke is harmless, but when you tell it, you’re whispering… you just might be a racist. If someone feels hurt by this joke, and you reply, “Oh stop being so politically correct!”… you just might be a racist. Direct or indirect, it’s a serious problem; situations will surely come up where your decision making skills will be taxed. You just might put the blame on an entire country one day, for the actions of just a few men, and join the herd. You might say: “There are always casualties in war; we regret the casualties.” You just might be a terrorist.