28 April, 2015
Dear Casparus and Gerardus,
I wish I could have been there with you, seventeenth-century’s chillings. Cursing every fucking Newtonian number with theological twaddle. Who would have thought your legacy to be the death of the polymath? In this sped-up system we call ideology, covered with a thick layer of dust, anti-heroes cease to exist, creativity is being commodified, and academics are undermined. We barely hear your two voices and the only pair I truly believed in turned out to be a salt and pepper shaker set. Recipe books are called Fifty Shades of Chicken. Everything’s a parody, mimesis has been fucked up, man. Who to follow? Who to believe? I heard voices up until 11 April; they sounded just like yours, even though I never got to meet you.
So tell me what you thought behind the Baroque fences of the Athenaeum Illustre? Tell me. Then tell it again. Again. Tell me eleven times, read to me your bedtime stories or should we set up a literary salon? Guide me again and don’t let them sell you in stone as well. Just like they did with (y)our homes.