hurrengoa
jhon kennedy toole, wicked ending luzia mikeliunas   When you open too many doors, when you stick your nose into every human niche and when you realise what you’re doing doesn’t really make “theological and geometrical” sense, when you’re capable of giving birth to Ignatius Reilly, the guy who turns the quasi-elegant decadence of New Orleans into a brush to paint a portrait of the world, when assholes vomit the charred face of reality onto your chest, when you are born in 1937 to a deaf father injured in the war and to an untrusting overprotective mother, when one believes in the genius of one’s own work but nobody else even realises and the gods of luck are playing against us, when they laugh at us and any attempt made to change the situation just gets brushed aside, when everything you’ve written gathers nothing but dust and one big fat no after another, when it’s as plain as the nose on your face that the world is a pain in the ass to people with sharp ideas and their own opinions, when there seems to be reasons to connect a hose to the exhaust and roll up the car windows...
Then, You probably won’t feel like hiding behind the even the smallest of stringy patches, nor will you desire to open the door and run in search of purgatory... And just leave all those uncertainties floating in the carbon monoxide...
Meanwhile, those of us who are here, flick from page to page, submerged in letters that turn into images, laugh, live through contradictions, feel repugnancy and admiration. We, the simple readers, won’t judge whether suicide is the result of cowardliness, rendition, active protest or just a tired soul. We will not be selfish and we will think had he lived longer, had we held on a little longer, we would have more confederacies to read about. We won’t blame those around him either, nor his unbalanced biography. When we don’t understand our own existence, how can we understand a man who drowned in a drop of human corruption? Humans, in the words of Pessoa, are nothing more than a biological idea that is difficult to believe in.
And what if he hadn’t taken his own life? We’ll leave that question for the pub talk, for people who want to try and understand the man who, masterwork in hand, wrote a chronicle of his own death and let assholes have the upper-hand for a decade.
Readers, if we look closely at the words he left us, we might just catch a glimpse of his autobiography, snatched from the back seat of his car, we might just catch a glimpse of his desire to live.