Self-consciousness is bad. I saw the de Kooning exhibit today and even though he scraped and covered his canvases over again and again, it wasn’t to be a great painter, it was to see how far he could go. If he had been like, I want to be a great painter, the paintings wouldn’t have turned out so good and he would have probably had a solo show before the age of 44. But he was not self-conscious. And he created fucking masterpieces like Bach. My dad brought some of the Fugues on the organ and they are fucking spectacular I want to turn the volume up so it shakes the windows and listen to Preston play them…
The novel. My novel. Too self-conscious. It must simply be writing, the best writing I can make it, about memories, and this will make it digressive and imagistic but it must be devoid of doubt. It must carry inspiration and purpose as one, like the Bible, the way the Ancient Jews wrote it out of inspiration by God and to keep a record. That is how I must write. Any and all of the novels that are memoirs and are written self-consciously are bad. They are puerile and sniveling. Even the ones I like, which I think are important, are only so in their little epoch of postmodernism. They are not masterpieces sublime like Bach and Michelangelo and Whitman. And that is why I must keep writing.
What if I write like a fugue, self-referencing without being self-conscious?