This Being the Fourth (or is it the fifth?) Volume
(Feb 17/06)
I have recently taken it upon myself to write the fourth (or is it the fifth?) volume of Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities, without his approval, of course, as he is dead and rotting somewhere, where or how rotten I do not know, nor care to quite frankly. Rotting things make me sick and disgusted, especially the human body, the form of the body or humanness of the human body, either way I get sick and quite disgusted, disgustedly sick in fact. The body, by it’s very nature, is a sad and sickly thing, a composite of rotting, offal things. When the body, the human body, rots, or decomposes, it lets off an awful stink, a reeking that is most displeasing to the sense of smell, and the eyes, which are often forced to redden and itch invariably so. Dead bodies, of the human variety, are best disposed of with haste and little regard for family wishes or begging to the contrary. The contrary, in this instance, being liming the corpse or chopping it into sizeable pieces then either incinerating it or burying it in a far off place, a place far away from one’s sense of smell and eyesight. I believe were Mr. Musil still alive, not rotting or completely decomposed, he would surely agree, as he was a man of unvarying principle and good manners. I have begun the fourth, or fifth, of Mr. Musil’s novels with the following opening sentence: I am a man who regardless of my protestations and conniving remain without qualities, none whatsoever. I remain, as I have been and will no doubt continue to be, a man without qualities, sadly enough, I have none. I will, as homage to Mr. Musil, keep you apprised.
I have recently taken it upon myself to write the fourth (or is it the fifth?) volume of Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities, without his approval, of course, as he is dead and rotting somewhere, where or how rotten I do not know, nor care to quite frankly. Rotting things make me sick and disgusted, especially the human body, the form of the body or humanness of the human body, either way I get sick and quite disgusted, disgustedly sick in fact. The body, by it’s very nature, is a sad and sickly thing, a composite of rotting, offal things. When the body, the human body, rots, or decomposes, it lets off an awful stink, a reeking that is most displeasing to the sense of smell, and the eyes, which are often forced to redden and itch invariably so. Dead bodies, of the human variety, are best disposed of with haste and little regard for family wishes or begging to the contrary. The contrary, in this instance, being liming the corpse or chopping it into sizeable pieces then either incinerating it or burying it in a far off place, a place far away from one’s sense of smell and eyesight. I believe were Mr. Musil still alive, not rotting or completely decomposed, he would surely agree, as he was a man of unvarying principle and good manners. I have begun the fourth, or fifth, of Mr. Musil’s novels with the following opening sentence: I am a man who regardless of my protestations and conniving remain without qualities, none whatsoever. I remain, as I have been and will no doubt continue to be, a man without qualities, sadly enough, I have none. I will, as homage to Mr. Musil, keep you apprised.
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