airport reading

About 5 am, Geneva airport. Heavy flu, sand in the eyes. Some old fool next to me is stretching his legs for awhile, which seems like perfectly normal behaviour at first. Then he gets up, starts playing with a plastic lid of some sorts, throwing it up in the air, running after it, dropping it on the floor. What the hell? This guy has gray hair, is probably 60, and plays around like a little kid. I shake my head in disbelief, and cracks open Friedrich Nietzsche’s ‘Twilight Of The Idols’. Why am I punishing myself like this? Shouldn’t I be reading something simple, like Dan Brown, instead?

The plane is late. When is it not? Every vitriolic word of Nietzsche passes by in indifference. It seems to be some sort of a declaration of war on reason, psychology and theology. I read a passage, I get lost, I don’t understand. I read the passage again. The same thing happens. We don’t get along, Nietzsche and I. I start to wonder if he got along with anyone at all? We touch the ground in Amsterdam, for a four-hour transit of emptiness – these cheap tickets kill me. I prowl the Schiphol for a sweetspot, and finally come across an available lounge chair, where I can get my feet up. I pounce, like a tiger in white Converse Chuck Taylor All Stars.
I can not get any sleep, although I am tired, which is no surprise to me. I am a lousy sleeper; when I actually sleep I sleep like an assassin. I watch some guy sit down in the chair next to me – in a matter of minutes he is pulling ZZZs like he is in paradise and talking to Jesus. It pisses me off in a royal way and I force myself to focus on ‘The Twilight Of Idols’.
Frankly, Nietzsche is not a poet. He writes with a heavy hammer, and bangs in his point of view, like I am the head of the nail. When I reach the end, I am relieved more than disappointed. Only poser-philosophers need apply.

What do I do next? I continue in great stubborn fashion with Friedrich Nietzsche’s ‘The Anti-Christ’…. hahaha. At first I find myself taunting the author, but the more I read the warmer I get in my clothes.
The plane is yet again late, and I’m dead sure the times on the screens are more guidelines than a measurement of accuracy. I buy a couple of bottles of Campari and Pernod, and continue turning the pages inside the crammed aircraft. This book is marvellous.

I quote: “Man is God’s first blunder… Woman was God’s second blunder. Woman is in her essence serpent… every evil comes into the world through woman… Man became God’s rival, science makes equal to God – it is all over with priests and gods if man becomes scientific – God’s mortal terror. God’s answer… Man shall not think.”

While not a fluent book, it is, in fact, more than marvellous. It is important. The crap has been peeled away, and it is completely naked of bullshit, totally devoid of fraud. It is a revaluation of values from 1895 – and I’m going to mail George W Bush and the Abdullahs a copy of it.

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