Read Online Vaseline Buddha by Jung Young Moon - Free Book Online

if I had ever laughed while reading my own work, and thought about the authors whose works made me laugh as I read them, and thought about how most of the authors I liked were already dead, and thought that when I read their works, I sometimes thought that I was talking to the ghosts who wrote those books, and thought about the works of authors and artists I used to like but now felt were quite banal, and could no longer read or look at, and thought about something that could be called the evolution of a human mind, and thought about the banality I saw in everything, which grew beyond control, which I couldn’t do anything about, and wondered what kind of a work I could be captivated by in the future, and thought about certain facts, such as the fact that T.S. Eliot’s first wife was in a mental hospital for nine years before she died, that James Joyce’s daughter was in a mental hospital for forty-six years before she died, that Paul Verlaine once hurled his three month old son against the wall during a fight with his wife, and that he wrote long novels about wars but he himself handed out cigarettes and chocolate at a facility run by the Red Cross before getting injured by shell fragments, and thought about Hemingway, who served less than a week at the battlefront during the First World War, and aboutHokusai, the Japanese artist, who said at age seventy-three that when he was eighty his paintings would finally make sense, and when he was ninety they would truly be the works of a master, and thought about how Balzac felt his death approaching and said that only Bianchon, the doctor in Father Goriot , could save him, and thought about the surrealist poet and architect who attempted to create a surrealistic, ideal garden in the middle of a Mexican jungle in the past century, and thought that an ideal world could exist only in ideal thoughts, and thought, while listening to Eric Satie, about the fact that he lived in extreme poverty in the later part of his life, and wondered if his music conveyed the sentiments of a man facing extreme poverty, and thought about what Salvador Dali meant when he said that Jackson Pollock’s style was like the indigestion that goes with fish soup, and thought, while reading the original English version of “Jabberwocky,” the strange poem by Lewis Carroll that’s almost impossible to translate, that it could perhaps be translated if long footnotes were added, and also thought about staying in the English seaside village where he is said to have written Alice in Wonderland, and thought about how Freud was a cocaine addict, and how Trakl, the poet, drank chloroform and spent time lying on a sofa, hallucinating, and thought about Trakl’s younger sister, who, invited to someone’s home for dinner, gave a cheerful musical performance, after which she went into the next room and killed herself with a gun, and wondered why I felt at home with bizarre things and felt at ease listening to music that could make you feel uncomfortable, such as Schonberg’s “Pierrot Lunaire,” and thought that there was considerable reason for it, and thought that I was eating too much fish, andwondered how many fish I must’ve eaten so far in my life, and thought that I asked this question almost invariably when I ate fish, and thought about how I had to make a living by translating foreign languages, and thought about the many dead authors I knew who translated foreign literature and then stopped thinking about them, and wondered what it was that made me reluctant to write something that could be called a love story or novel, and thought about the fact that I was always trying to imagine an unimaginable world, and thought about the frantic nature of certain feelings I had, and thought about feelings that didn’t last long, and feelings that, once there, wouldn’t leave easily, and thought about the fights I had with mosquitoes from time to time at home, fights