Two copies of the 1996 edition of my Residua have been prominently displayed at the Serpentine Gallery’s bookshop ever since the Gallery was refurbished more than a year ago. One of the books is still in its cellophane wrapper; the other shows some traces of interest, but it is obvious not too many people have fingered it for long. At the price of thirty pounds, which is far below the printing cost, the book is a flop. And yet, I dedicate most of my life to working on it, thinking about it, worrying about it… The moral?

Addendum (October 1, 2015)

Many of my books of selections from my Residua do not fare any better than the 1996 edition. The same holds for my magnum opus on the World Wide Web. They are flops one and all. Still, I cannot imagine my life without all these books and my blog, if this is what it actually is. Day in and day out, I spend hours reading my own writings. As well as writing addenda to what I have written at so many diverse places and at disparate times, as is the case with this particular piece. And I do not feel like a flop. Not at all. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. Indeed, I feel like a hit all my own. The moral? What moral?