I was rummaging through an old print zine that I published back in my college days and ran across this great excerpt from the Hungarian writer Peter Esterhazy. He didn’t write the piece for my zine. I just reprinted it, which was the old way of linking to it, although I forgot the source.
We got what we expected and that means we certainly had it coming. Laziness is an ugly thing, or if it is not, it isn’t laziness. Everything is clear.
(In Praise of Laziness) Things are not that easy, however. For the lazy may goof off, kill time, loiter, play truant, dally, doodle, dawdle, linger, malinger, vegetate, do nothing in what is called life, live in misery, want, destitution, penury, privation, fear; they may be anxious, worried, while obviously always comfortably lying around, lounging around, but they are not (not and again not) idling or loafing. For even though the lazy are idle, the idle indolent, the lazy do not idle.
So what do they do? Nothing, we answer self-confidently; therefore, they are lazy.
Take it slowly. For what are the unlazy up to? The unlazy are hardworking. The hardworking work. Those who work create the order in which they live. By creating it, they praise it (provided they do not destroy it in the process—but this is unlikely). The lazy are not like that; they do not praise the order.
The lazy keep quiet. Just the way they sit down unsure of themselves and snort. And won’t get up, just stare. It is winter but spring will come soon. Only ill-will would describe their stare as glassy. “Bottomless depths,” perhaps this phrase could best express their profound philosophical loafing. Nonsense, the lazy keep quiet. They are neither content nor malcontent. Although/indeed, they shamelessly indulge their own laziness.
The lazy are not sluggish or slow. They are not bored. The lazy are as far from ennui as Budapest is from Saturn.
The lazy give things appropriate emphasis. Thus, they don’t accept the usual, rather they prefer the extraordinary. They try to swim against the tide (without much success though), and refuse to believe “the deceptive noise, the stream of cant” pouring over the loudspeakers. And while they may occasionally feel cheated like everyone else, they, at least sometimes, see things clearly. When in a bad mood, they say they must get things clear to see clearly.
Notwithstanding, even though they are scared, they are not frightened (not even of themselves). They exude a kind of “ontological serenity.” Pardon.
If you want to live, do so at your own expense. The lazy know this. Laziness like hard work is cut to measure.
The lazy are not passive, the hardworking are. It is the latter who grow tired, dull, and stiff, who turn into objects, who beg (themselves) for a short break. The lazy don’t. They are forever alert, active, prepared for everything. It is they who are open, ingenuous, receptive, always hoping for miracles. It is they who cannot be reckoned with, who aren’t programmed, predetermined, quantified, who are rather unpredictable, stimulating, exciting. Laziness means a big chance in life. It is the eternal adventure, the guardian of shimmering, bygone aspirations. It is the lazy who have clear minds, who are incorruptible, who remain true to themselves in this cheaply decorated world. It is they who shrug their shoulders, who don’t give a damn, who beg to differ, who can turn pale, who are burdensome, unpleasant, who fume with rage, who are unwilling, who resist, doubt, distrust, stutter, who negate, who are happy, therefore who affirm, who cannot be kept tributary to their talents. It is they who are FREE.
The excerpt above was written by Peter Esterhazy and published in a literary journal in the late 1980s (Paris Review?).
