As an artist, I often feel that creating things is pointless. There's a certain dread that comes along with creation, like you're wasting your time. I sort of relate that feeling to Camus' notion of humiliated thought. Anyway, this book, I think, teaches you to wield that very pointlessness to create a mark in time, while it passes through us slow and jagged. Art gives you the ability to express "intellectual drama," and through that we can create meaning despite certain pointlessness. I think that even art is a symptom of felt pointlessness, not a cure. I think this book just says that you can choose your symptom, and that ability to choose grounds us in a landscape most confusing.
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