I’m reading Simon Critchley’s Very Little….Almost Nothing. And loving it. That is, if one can love a book on philosopy. He sets up rather deastablising questions. I move into them. And I find that I am not unsettled but liberated. The nothingness, the meaninglessness. A challenge at first, then there is all that space left behind by so called meaning. There is none, he says, using Beckett as proof. Nothing but stuff and silence. It is enough. I like this.
