I love reading memoirs recently. They’re usually an easy read, which is just right for the level of concentration I have. I actually wrote a biographic book myself. I wasn’t a fan of the genre back then —writing one wasn’t particularly fun either— but it’s still a good one, I believe. Anyway, I just read actor Elliot Page’s memoir “Pageboy” and a quote he mentioned stuck with me. Once his friend, actress and musician Carrie Brownstein told him, „Every self-respecting person hates themselves.” Such a smart quote. And makes so much sense. I repeated this to myself so many times that it almost lost its meaning in my head.
On the other hand, there are some quotes that sound so nice and smart, but don’t really mean a lot. An example from a Charles Bukowski story I read around the same time with Page’s memoir: “Only the poor knew the meaning of life; the rich and the safe had to guess.” What do you mean Charles? Which life are you talking about? Is “life” one and only? I guess he meant it as a consolation: “It sucks to be poor but at least I could learn what life is.” This sentence too struck me as I first read it but when I got back and thought about it, didn’t make much sense. I actually went through the pages I read to find it and read it again, I couldn’t; that is how much without context it was. Poor knows the meaning of the poor life and rich doesn’t. Wow. I might as well say: “Only the immigrant knew the meaning of immigrant life; the local and the safe had to guess.” I mean, obviously. Please don’t quote me.
If I get back to self-respect, or self-hate to be more honest, mine came to surface after I moved to Germany. I tried to destroy myself in different ways, of course subconsciously at the time. I am too ashamed to give examples, if I could, you would go between having fun and feeling pity while reading them, and this would be a much better text. But I’m not there yet.
I felt most unsuccessful, just after I realized one of my earliest dreams: Living in Berlin. I even wrote a composition about it, in collaboration with my best friend, at the sixth grade. But back then I thought Berlin was the capital of the United States of America. A foolish classmate corrected it, while making fun of us. But guess who lives in Berlin today and who stayed in our tiny hometown. Huh.
I eventually found my way to Berlin, to the city of my dreams. It wasn’t that easy, thinking that I did not even know in which country it was, but here I am. Why am I being so hard on myself? I guess I wasn’t satisfied with not where I ended up but how I ended up here. Or maybe I started respecting myself a bit too much.
* Page, Elliot, 2024, Pageboy: A Memoir, pp. 107, Flatiron Books.
