To Willing Conflators Of Italo Calvino And Jeremy Todd (fifty second letter)

Dear Friends,
I would like these not sent letters to mark the end of “wasted angst” in my life.  I’ve never regretted anything so much as having particular individual worries, in a certain sense anachronistic ones, whereas general worries, worries about our time (or at any rate those that can be reduced to such: like your problem in paying the rent, for instance) are so many and so vast and so much “my own” that I feel they are enough to fill all my “worryability” and even my interest and enjoyment in living. So from now on I want to dedicate myself entirely to these letters.
I am already aware of the traps in this and that’s why for some time now my first need has been to “de-professionalize” myself, to get myself out of the stranglehold that has dominated the last twenty-five years of my life, critiquing immediately, commenting on things before having time to form an informed and well-considered opinion on them. I want to build a new kind of daily program for myself where I can finally get into something, something definitive (within the limits of historical possibility), something not dishonest or insincere (unlike the way today’s artist always behaves, more or less).
For that reason I made several plans for myself with this project:  …to maintain my contacts with reality and the world, but while careful, of course, not to get lost in unnecessary activities that support the status quo; and also to set up my own individual work not as an “artist” any more but as an autonomous historical agent, utilizing notes, comments, books, and a load of other things within reach, always with the care necessary to avoid affirming a culture that wants me worried and perpetually desperate.
I’ve also taken comfort in knowing you understand this stuff first hand.