Was he already dead? Will he ever wake up? Was he not made to love women? Where will he find the time? Why do they not come together in a feast of sexual delight? Why does a bouncing ball eventually stop bouncing? If one is finicky about sex, is one rejecting life? Why would they behave so cruelly? Why can he not have a normal relationship with his mother? Is he sorry? What does she mean? What if his father is right? Is it appropriate to be jealous of a man who can no longer manage an erection? It seems a dull kind of life, but what else is there?
What is truth anyway? Must I not spit? Will he become like those scientists whose brains solve problems while they sleep? Is she a nymphomaniac? Can one make art out of sickness? What is the key to equanimity? What happens afterwards, between a man and a woman who have failed at the game? Why should they care? What if he stays and fails disgracefully? Do inner qualities count for nothing? How is she to save him? Why do they not hear the last bleatings of the victim behind the shed, smell its blood, and take heed? Who is the greatest writer in the world? What is it that makes them forbear? This thing that is two things means that he will not die, no matter what; but does it not also mean that he will not live? What is wrong with him? Can she accept that he is not normal? How does he know?
From what are you fleeing? When are you going to die? How does it work, the cleansing action that misery is reputed to have? If he fails at sex, does he fail the whole test of life? What is it that keeps him in existence? Who is to say that at each moment while the pen moves he is truly himself? Is it possible to be dull and ordinary not only on the surface but to one’s deepest depths, and yet be an artist? Will he turn out to be his father’s son? What is it about girl cousins, even the idea of them, that sparks desire in him? Where can one go to be free of the fury of politics? Where can one hide where one will not feel soiled? What has happened to him? What kind of world is this?
Does he want to be made unhappy? Why? If he is a mystery to himself, how can he be anything but a mystery to others? Is he unable to live without a country? Is it good to be from Pomerania? Why should a French girl deign to speak to him? Are there any questions? Is that what growing up amounts to: growing out of passion, of all intensities of the soul? What is there that can be done with legs beyond devouring them with one’s eyes? Why don’t they do something about it? Is the self he sees at such moments merely what he appears to be, or is it what he really is? Are there signs one ought to be able to recognise? What if you get cancer?
Why not change his nature? Where are the unrecognised masterpieces? What chance is there that she would understand? Has destiny escaped him? How much does one pay? Must he become miserable to write? How could he have got someone pregnant? How much longer before the wound stops bleeding? What should he do with his gratitude? Is sex the measure of all things? Is the face in the mirror the face of his dreams? Is her shadow stored in his inner darkness? Why do they have to cut off the lambs’ tails? Is he truly the lover Monica Vitti seeks? Why does he not come out of himself? Who is the fortunate one who has been granted the future that should have been his? How did it happen?
Must I swallow the fly? Whose fault is it? Where will he find what he needs to know? What is the point of anything? Does a single word of indeterminate grammatical class count as speech? Can’t he just be normal? Why couple the back of the body with the front? Is this what passion does to a man? What does he know of sex? But is it true? What is the right answer? Why the dressing up, the ritual motions? Is that what women want? Are they right? Where did he pick up this infatuation? How long does one mourn, if one mourns? What is the upshot of this lack of heart? Is he going to persist in not playing the game? Will he have to swim beyond mere misery into melancholia and madness? Why the huge sham?
Is he losing the poetic impulse? How can a child have children? How can a child be a father? Is that how taboo operates: creating desire by forbidding it? Why? Is there anything he can do to make her understand that he is not one of them? How long will it go on? What do you mean? What does it matter, finally, if the story gets out? What are his true thoughts anyway? What happened to him? How is he going to survive? What more could he hope for? What on earth are sally gardens? What is he doing in this huge, cold city? When will she see that he has grown so far from her that he might as well be a stranger?
If he were no longer himself, what point would there be in living? What do the words mean? Was it a huge mistake? Should he soldier on until closing time, though he is racked with yawns? What is the point of that? What was he expecting? Why does he not catch a train and spend Saturday with her? What could be more human than sex? Is there something about the whole business that he has failed to understand? What sort of teacher will he make? What if, alone in his room, he begins to cry and cannot cease?
Is this love? Should he call an ambulance? Who is to say that the feelings he writes in his diary are true feelings? Why was he leaning out of a window watching an empty street? What will he say? Why does he persist in making marks on paper? Will there be a reward for us one day? Why does he make the most ordinary things so hard for himself? And what of himself? Is he able to do what is required of him? What must he do? What is desire for? What does Jesus mean? Will everyone perish? Must it all be so cruel? Shall I let go? But how?
A note on the method used to create the text: I typed out questions from Scenes from Provincial Life, then entered them into a randomising program several times (so that the questions appeared in various random sequences). I chose a sequence, then shaped it, pruning, adapting and re-ordering, mostly for rhythm and meaningful or semi-meaningful connections. Most questions appear as they were originally written, but many have been shortened or otherwise modified. The title is also from Scenes.