Tuesday, 12 October 2010

Did Pierre Rolin steal £30 million from Gulf investor?

That's what he has been accused of, this Pierre Rolin. Apparently, he is being sued by some investor, some ex-client, from the Gulf, and he must remain a mystery. I'm not talking about the investor. I'm talking about Pierre Rolin. Pierre Rolin must remain a mystery. Maybe not to the world at large, but to me. Certainly to me. I have no desire to know anything more than his name. I don't want to hear that he used to work at Credit Suisse; so please, no emails. I don't want to hear that he is a Tory donor. [Internal organs to MPs?! Who knows, or cares? It is a private matter.] And - don't mention the invoices! I am not interested. Do you understand? These vulgar facts - if indeed they are facts - spoil the mystery for me. And I am a man who needs mysteries.

Take a look at Gillian Tett. Gillian is a mystery to me. I often take a look at her; then I float off into a world of dreams; and that's all I need. The things I know about her, I try to forget. The things I see, in visions, burn me. Some of you will say: 'Michael, you have blown her up in your mind, your heart, your soul, so that she now exists as a magnificent angel, beautiful, intelligent, charismatic, but with few human qualities.' So be it! It's my life, and I must do what I feel is best for, well, both of us. We're in this together, this fantastic life, this fantasy. Dreams can come true. I will not be like Arthur Rimbaud. I will not turn away from the chimeras I have created. I will embrace them! I will bring them into reality! Just wait and see. [I have checked my Oxford dictionary. One definition of chimera: '(in Greek mythology) a fire-breathing female monster with a lion's head, a goat's body, and a serpent's tail.' Obviously not Gillian. Gillian is an angel. She is an angel. I love her.] And another thing! I feel it is time I left the Rimbaud/Lautreamont stage; moved beyond it, as it were, or as it will be. They were great revolutionary writers who changed literature forever, but their content did not match their revolutions. I mean, the quality of the writing did not match its innovations. Or something like that. We all know I mean something like that. Kafka, Beckett. [Where are we now?] The two greatest writers of the twentieth century were Franz Kafka and Samuel Beckett. Their work was not as ground-breaking as Rimbaud's or Lautreamont's, but the content was superior. I must strive for the same quality and the same level of seriousness, or what's the point? And I must start to care less what my readers (you!) think. That doesn't mean I will develop a lack of respect for my readers. I appreciate every loyal reader I have. But serious writers do not pander to their readers. They do not give the readers what they want. Shakespeare, Dickens, Tolstoy? Forget them! They were entertainers. Kafka and Beckett wrote for themselves, as did Rimbaud and Lautreamont. It hardly mattered to them what other people thought. That is real strength! Oh God, is this one of my infamous tangents?! I was supposed to be writing about Gillian Tett!

O Master, you were supposed to be writing about Pierre Rolin.

Ah yes, Pierre Rolin. There will come a time when men like Pierre Rolin will be nothing more than names in a blog. They won't even be puppets. They won't even have the status of puppets! What a terrible fate! Well, they have asked for it. I don't have their wealth. I don't have their amazing lifestyles. I am in the shit. But I will turn shit into gold! It may take ten or twenty years. It may take fifty years. I may have to wait until two or three hundred years after my death (knowing my luck, I will have to wait that long), but the alchemy is coming. Shit into gold! A wretched life can become glorious. In the meantime, let's stick with the mysteries. I need the mysteries, as I've already said [written]. Reader, you need the mysteries. I know you do. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, would you? You would be reading some pathetic blog/website that gives you THE NEWS. Well, here's some news for them: fuck your news. I piss on your news. IT MEANS NOTHING, and it will not be remembered. I hope they're paying you well because you're wasting your lives. It's about time you realized that, yes, I may be insane, but my insanity is worth more than your dull sanity.

O Master, Pierre Rolin?

Pierre Rolin is a mystery. I know nothing about him. I have seen him burning in astral nights. That's not the reality he knows. He doesn't know how I have seen him. He has not seen himself in this way. Maybe I have caught a glimpse of Pierre Rolin as he really is. Maybe the mystery only exists in his head. Imagine if he were a mystery to himself, but not a mystery to me. Wouldn't that be ... unusual? I am bored with Pierre now. To tell you the truth, I wish I had written about Gillian from the very beginning. I could write about her all day. "Gillian Tett: beautiful angel." What a title! Maybe I'll write it one of these nights, when I'm cold and lonely. Thousands and thousands and thousands of words! Oh, so many nights of dreams, and despair.

[I suppose there are sections of this post that should be deleted, or at least edited. I often write things I shouldn't write. I often reveal too much of my soul. I have no control. I wish I had control. You should have seen me earlier. I was biting my hand. Almost made it bleed. That's the passion I have. I would have smeared the blood over my face, if it had come. I would have looked in the mirror and seen the truth. Will anything ever change?]

Note: 'beautiful, intelligent, charismatic, but with few human qualities.' These are human qualities, of course; but they are taken to an inhuman level in my visions.