I write garbage
Translator's Note
This is my English translation of a personal essay (เคฎ เคुเคฐ เคฒेเค्เคु ) originally written in Nepali and published in 3/10/19. This reflective piece explores the author's motivations, philosophical underpinnings, and deeply personal relationship with writing. In translating this work, I have attempted to preserve the conversational yet philosophical tone, the literary references, and the stream-of-consciousness style that characterizes the original Nepali composition. Some cultural and literary references specific to Nepal and its context have been maintained to honor the authenticity of the original voice.
A few days ago, someone asked me: "Why do you write?"
"To fuck off my mind," I replied. That's all I said. He didn't ask another question. Perhaps he understood from my answer why I write. But why do I write, really?
Before I could give him that answer, I remembered Eric Arthur Blair's "Why Writers Write." We know Orwell by his cult classics. Every one of his books has left some mark on me. I can't remember when I read Blair's Animal Farm, but that essay must have certainly cleared away the thick cobwebs of my mind. I'm not an admirer of Orwell, though to be honest, I'm not an admirer of anyone. Do I write to erase my solitude? Or do I write to stir my childhood, youth, and so on? Or am I inspired by Descartes' skepticism, the way I have pursued true knowledge? I'm not that energetic in appearance, but I can certainly doubt everything I see, so I always remain open to infinite knowledge.
What is my first memory that stirs my passion? I feel a strange urge when I see people walking with clenched fists. Did their palms remember the sensation of air? I want to keep my mind open like this—so I read until my mind dries out, and from that reaction, words fall like maple leaves on an autumn street, trying to touch people's sensibilities, but I never quite seem clever enough. My writing is only as crooked as I see the world as crooked. Could I ever write about the sweet smell of the evening breeze that emerges from the bay tree in the evening? Could I write about the all-day fatigue of cattle herds that follow the sunset as they return home? I pretend to write. Perhaps, like Arthur Blair said, I write only to appear clever. Did I want to leave something behind after I die, or like Orwell said? No. I am inspired by the beauty of words. Words seem to me like naked young women. They enchant me. I follow words the way mothers follow their wayward children. Erotic words. I'm not so enamored with language. I think the things I write should be as simple as my reasoning. Sometimes, when I cannot find complex words and the simplicity of Donna Read overwhelms me, I almost reach a state of stupor. I become intoxicated from her gentle cinema. Yes, perhaps I am seeking to create poetry filled with just such hypnotic beauty.
So let me say it: just as some female character in Donna Reid's work might, satisfied with my writing, ask me to dance—"Shall I dance with you?"—I wonder if I write like Orwell said, out of sheer egotism. Sometimes I even write unwanted pieces about why I write, all from an unconscious, drunk mind!
Just as Don Quixote, centuries ago, exhausted his mind by reading, so I want to become drained by writing. After that, may nothing remain—nothing to say, nothing to write, nothing to clear away.
I want to write about the volcanic eruption of human thought that flooded Europe. I want to write again about Elton John's cold eyes or illuminate them. Don't I have the ambition that Michel Bolton has—to reach everyone's ears by singing "When a Man Loves a Woman"? Perhaps my pen will never speak of psychology, philosophy, or history, but I want to resurrect Tom Joad again. I want to write like another John Fante. I want to write about Beethoven's fingers as he created Symphony No. 5. When I write all of this, I may sound arrogant, but these are all matters of intoxication. Perhaps I cannot write without intoxication—it's the desire to capture a falling star as it falls, or like "Drinking Alone in the Moonlight," to see my words under the moon, intoxicated by wine.
A cup of wine, under the flowering trees; I drink alone, for no friend is near.
When spiritual discontent or conflict arises, people begin to seek outlets. From such outlets, some write poetry, some write stories, some write Journey to the End of the Night or The Passion of the Soul. I write twisted things.
I spent much time trying to understand philosophy, but I never understood philosophy nor the Sophia who follows philosophy. That's not what I'm trying to say now. The question was: why do I write?
There is a verse in the Bhagavad Gita that means: "This world changes every moment, so how can we call something that constantly changes the truth?" I want to write that remaining untruth—something I cannot meet, something that is many epochs away from me. Sartre didn't discover existentialism for the world; he fought that battle with himself. He gave us existentialism with both eyes closed. Those who know me closely might struggle to understand why I said "with both eyes closed." I exist in such an unnatural dilemma that attacks my very existence. I gather words to reduce the intensity of that attack. Twisted words!
Salutations!
