Thanksgiving Is Ruined

The Personal is Political. The Political is Personal.

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May 06, 2015

Meursault, contre-enquĂȘte

TiR has no idea if the novel contains "blasphemy." 

However, why does it seem that the most imaginably "blasphemous" passages are also the funniest?  

Or the most bitingly ironical . . . 

Ha ha! I've always wondered to myself: Why such a complicated relationship between this religion and wine?  Why do we demonize this beverage when it's supposed to flow in rivers in Paradise? Why is it forbidden down here, but promised to us up there?  Drunk driving.  Maybe God doesn't want humanity to drink while driving the universe in His place, holding the wheel for both of us. . . OK OK, I admit it, the argument is a bit dodgy.  I love to ramble on, as you're starting to know.(pgs. 61-2)
For me, religion is a form of public transportation which I don't take.  I would rather go to God by foot, if I must do it at all, but not as part of a package tour.(p. 76)
If I may be so bold as to say it, religions horrify me.  All of them!  Because they skew the weight of the world.  I've sometimes wanted . . to scream out: stop your whiny recitation of verses!  Live in the world!  Open your eyes to your own power and dignity!  And stop running after a father who has fled away into the skies and who is never coming back.(p. 79)
What would I do if I had a scheduled appointment to meet God and I passed a motorist on the road who needed me to help him fix his car?  I don't know.  I am that guy who's broken down, not the one who's passing by in search of  holiness.(p. 80)
The story is told of a certain Sadhu Amar Bharati. You've undoubtedly never heard tell of this gentleman.  He is an Indian who insists that he has kept his right arm raised up in the air for thirty eight years.  And as result, his arm is nothing more than a bone wrapped in skin.  It will stay stuck until he dies.  Maybe that's the way it goes for all of us, deep down.  For some, it's arms hugging the void left by the body of a loved one.   For others, it's a hand holding onto a baby that's already grown old,  a leg raised above the brink of a thresh-hold that will never be crossed,  teeth clenched on a word never pronounced, and so on and so on.  The idea keeps me entertained . . . (p. 101-02)
I want to howl out that I am free, that God is a question not an answer, and that I want to meet Him alone, all by myself, as on the day of my birth or my death.(p. 149)

. . . Or the most sorrowful.