“Someone’s Knocking at my Door”.

If he could find the words to articulate his hatred he would say he is defending himself, that he feels threatened, by me as it happens, though I wouldn’t hurt a fly. He goes to the gym, does martial arts, and trains day and night so that after a while his body is, as they say, pure muscle, nothing spare, his skin merely an ornament to his physique, no superfluous hair, eyes, nose or ears, needing nothing but this pure muscle, because he had better be prepared, as the others tell him, I mean the pack he goes to the gym with, to shoot with, and to train with, prepared because the enemy is all but invisible. The enemy can be named and is everywhere, but as soon as you put your hand out to grab him —at least in is his own experience — the enemy slips through those pure-muscle fingers, wriggles free, slips away and pretty soon disappears so there’s nothing left in the pure muscle fist and he has to start all over again, searching, fencing him in, and pounding him with his fist again and again.

I’ve been having him a lot up here recently, but here’s an essay by László Krasznahorkai, translated by George Szirtes. [via The New York Times]



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One response to ““Someone’s Knocking at my Door”.

  1. Pingback: Rojak: Three birthdays. | Who Killed Lemmy Caution?

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