Doesn't this blog just worsen Russell's agony with regard to the yawning blankness with which everything is (not) received?
Yes, interesting.
But see, Russell has attempted to express all of this privately, in the solitary sanctity of a word processing program, but for whatever reason, the seclusion provided by this method affects his (self-)communication in a corrosive way. A sentence cannot finish before it has to be interrupted for contradiction, for self-heckling.
Everything is killed mid-birth, there in the solitude.
Russell can carry on a little better in public forums, can hold the threads together a bit longer. But of course this also means he exposes himself to the anti-chorus of DOT-DOT-DOT in (non-)response. With this in mind, may we suspect that a bit of the ol' masochism is at work here?
In light of this, we are left only to hope that some sort of gods do indeed exist, and that they are an eager and ever-present audience for Dear Russell's catastrophic attempts to come to terms with himself.
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