For your convenience, information here has been organised as follows:
For my current research, you are referred to my Bremen pages, but here's an abstract of my thesis.
Those of my leisure interests that I see fit to reveal to the world at large (so nothing about sheep here). In particular, material related to a strange band from Manchester, England, called The Fall, various other things about young persons' popular music, and a collection of football-related stuff on the net. And of course, there's our very own fantasy football league.
Thanks for reading this. Any comments welcome at
I jump to my feet: if only I could stop thinking, that would be something of an improvement. Thoughts are the dullest things on earth. Even duller than flesh. They stretch out endlessly and they leave a funny taste in the mouth. Then there are words, the sketchy phrases which keep coming back: ``I must fini... I ex... Dead... Monsieur de Roll is dead... I am not... I ex...'' It goes on and on... and there's no end to it. It's worse than the rest because I feel responsible, I feel that I am to blame. For example, it is I who keep up this sort of painful rumination. _I exist_. It is I. The body lives all by itself, once it has started. But when it comes to thought, it is I who continue it, I who unwind it. I exist. I think I exist. Oh, how long and serpentine this feeling of existing is - and I unwind it, slowly... If only I could prevent myself from thinking! I try, I suceed: it seems as if my head is filling with smoke... And now it starts again: ``Smoke.. Mustn't think... I don't want to think... I don't want to think... I think that I don't want to think. I mustn't think that I don't want to think. Because it is still a thought.'' Will there never be an end to it?
