I’m in love with Manhattan, it matches my mood. I love the amplitude, the elegance, the solidity, it is all majestic and Babylonian. I love it. Manhattan can be poetized. Or maybe that’s a mania of mine to poetize. I live kindly, smoothly, ears and eyes wide open, alert, oiled.
I’m at once beyond, over and in Manhattan, tasting it fully. So far everything delights me.
I’m not so well satisfied with myself, as people sometimes seem to think, I don’t expect too much, and I try to be kind and respectful to every single person, even when they are half-way friendly toward me. I appreciate them a way more now than I did when I tried to make everybody over. Because the truth is an illusion, a sum of enhanced, transposed, and distorted assumptions, which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to us… An army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms.
My first impulse, of course, is to think that my own way of seeing things is the right way, but my second thought is always to consider that I could be wrong and that I have been often mistaken. Whether this works out or not, I live according to this assumption, this is not an ambiguity, it only comes into conflict with the obligation imposed by society that it should exist. To be truthful means using the customary metaphors in moral terms, the obligation to lie according to fixed conventions.
The test of one’s honesty is how much of a fight you are going to put up once you have stopped caring. I guess it is playing the game after that, that matters.