The garbage collectors collected the garbage. Before going to another house, one of them said, “May I have your empty bottles if there are any?” I was overhearing their conversation at the gate—Jullian and the garbage collector. Jullian said, “No, we sell them.” The collector walked a few steps away, then shouted, “Garbage for sale!” What a bastard! I thought. If empty bottles are garbage, why is he very interested in them? Isn’t he going to sell them if we give those bottles away? Oh, you cannot reason with a garbage collector, simply a garbage head.
Sunday afternoon, I finished reading Bartleby of Herman Melville. What a pathetic character—Bartleby—and a little bit loony! Of course, I’m not the first to notice his eccentricities but the other characters, including the narrator, in this short novel. Melville’s style is a bit obscure but in his brilliant portrayal of this character, I do declare that Melville is a writer par excellence.
I’ve got a feeling (again) that . . . oh, I’d better drop it. No events nor ideas to write about. Well, try the usual technique—making discoveries along the way—but no discoveries, only boredom, the creative juice (there again) not even flowing. How can I proceed? It’s gonna be a drag, misery—sounds like a Beatles song, no, really a Beatles song. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m off, I can’t help it. It’s up to you if you want to read this entry.