No-one should ever read their own autobiography. Especially when they didn’t write it, it’s still in progress and has an ending while they’re still alive. Yet here I am, on my way to see the Captain, having a nostalgia moment.
Here’s my personal idea of “Fate”:
Nothing. There is no ‘Fate’, simply the ‘Future’, and even that’s iffy. Time is simultaneous. I am here, and I am in Rapture, and I am…shaking hands with Dream’s sister. Each and every HH will claim himself to be in the ‘present’. Simultaneous. Like an ocean.
There is no Fate. Just what is done, and what shall be done.
So I read my book. Biggest present under the tree. Giant red button. Cats murdered by curiosity, etc.
But it’s all fine. The first book I’ve ever read that fights back. Whenever your eyes reach what no physicist can describe as the ‘now’, you get stuck on a line like “HH is reading his book.” I imagine if anyone were stubborn enough to keep trying, they’d see the words a billion times over until they died before a sentence like “and then starvation won.”
If you then put it down and try and challenge it, you can still return later to regale in all the stuff you did in between. And then the repetition returns.
I can’t even count the remaining pages, though there is a reasonable amount between forefinger and thumb. “Enough to be getting on with” has never been so appropriate.
Still, I admitted that I like not knowing, and I stick to that. But even the patient ones like to guess. Part of me hopes that somewhere in the last page are the words “HH returns to his book” with me having one last stab at it.
My respect to that HH. He’ll be doing it ‘presently’ too.
Anyway, the lights have started to go weird and I’ve lost connection to the sonic. I get the impression many soft matters are about to hit an equal number of fans. Better get down to business.
Time to go question Towels.