Cioran

I've been reading about Cioran on this blog. Read the entry from March 12th about trying to reconcile facism and good writing; a very, very complex subject. In case you don't get there, I will quote a little section from Jessica Crispin, 

"Last year I taught a class on bad people who wrote good books, and how the reader can, or if the reader should, try to separate the writer from the book....Then I picked up The Temptation to Exist a few days ago, and holy fuck it is good. The first essay in the collection rails against Tao philosophy and the idea of detachment, and it feels completely fresh, as if he's fighting against yoga studio philosophers, prattling about inner wisdom and mindfulness:

Almost all our discoveries are due to our violences, to the exacerbation of our instability. Even God, insofar as He interests us -- it is not in our innermost selves that we discern God, but at the extreme limits of our fever. "

I am tempted to buy the book....

re-reading Rebus, Ian Rankin.

As I wind down from too many late nights, long train journeys and early starts, I turn to re-reading Rankin and his brilliant detective novels, featuring D.I Rebus and Edinburgh. It is like slipping on a familiar jumper and an old pair of polyester socks. Whenever I read Rebus, I long for drizzle, microwaved dinners and an electric fire. Rankin does not do picturesque Britain, there are no twee hills, anti-macassars smell of damp and the only food served is whisky and crisps. Rebus and Rankin deliver cynical politics, disillusion and belief. The characters are as real as the crack on your wall and the plots mean you can't put the books down. Read 'The Naming of the Dead' you won't regret it.