Over breakfast, my wife says I’ve been sipping orange juice ‘angrily’. I deny the charge. She shrugs her slim shoulders. ‘In any case,’ she says, ‘you can’t say you haven’t massacred that egg’. I look down at my plate. It’s true: my spoon-work was a little on the violent side. ‘You sent egg shell to all four corners of the room,’ she notes, calmly. ‘What’s wrong?’
Nothing is wrong. Not really. Nothing too serious anyway. After all, I’ve been ignored before. In fact, I’ve been ignored pretty much all the way along. The obscure regions of European literature are just that: obscure. Not many people pass this way. That’s the way it has always been and the way it always will be. Yevgeny Nonik will never be found cosying up to a mouse-brained celebrity chef on the end-of-year bestseller lists. Not whilst I’m still living, anyway.
So why do I still harbour expectations? Why do I still imagine that I deserve a little more attention than I am currently receiving? Is it really so presumptuous to assume that an article on pineapples and active reading should attract more than the merest handful of fans it has so far gathered? Perhaps so.
Or perhaps I’m simply not going the right way about my business. I confess: things haven’t quite panned out as planned this year. The Underneath the Bunker site overhaul is, to all intents and purposes, several months behind schedule, whilst the Yevgeny Nonik book is, at present, almost non-existent. Other projects, meanwhile, meander with insouciance. Even this blog has been quieter than usual the last few weeks. But then you can’t blame me. This is all a lot of work for one man to get through with so little feedback. Even my hate-mail is on the decline. Sad times.
Still, 2010 is full of promise. The promise, not least, of more to come. For despite my present mood (brought about, mainly, by the ‘joys’ of the season) I have no intention of stopping. No, no, no. So long as eighty year old Andorrans are still writing experimental novels, so I will be writing about them. You haven’t got rid of me yet, apathetic non-readers! Georgy Riecke is still here, quietly spreading the sweet treacle of obscure european culture over the rough dry bread of contemporary criticism.
There, I’ve said it. Now, who’s ready for some half-hearted Christmas quizzing?