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Apostrophe
Dec. 5th, 2008 10:16 pmEach winter, I re-discover why I enjoy it. I remember that I love wading through snow with doggie in tow. "Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt" (Vonnegut), or Nothing Places, "in which one could temporarily cease to exist" (Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close). Did you know birds can actually walk up trees, diagonally? Until I saw one do it earlier, I had no idea.
(Tangent: "We're also asked to believe that Oskar's grandfather, who lost his fiancée, Anna, during the firebombing of Dresden, was so traumatized by his experiences that he stopped speaking and took to writing down everything instead: "If something made me want to laugh, I'd write 'Ha ha ha!' and instead of singing in the shower I would write out the lyrics of my favorite songs, the ink would turn the water blue or red or green, and the music would run down my legs."" NY Times' review of Extremely Loud .... Belief is not a factor of literature. Just as reliable narrators are not. What transpires in fictional discourse is neither true nor false, because it is fiction. No good piece of fiction is ever reliable. It isn't the reliability of it, but the implicity; all that is not said, images, ideas, thoughts. The idea of theme as a direct product of the author is also faulty. Theme is a product of the reader. The rammifications of which I will not deal with now.)
Wouldn't this make for a beautifully structured film or novel? A story of some sort, perhaps several – no, on second thought, not several; it would be too cluttered –, with entirely unrelated tangents thrown in. If I could only put my visions to paper. Which, of course, makes me the overly predictable middle-class child. Expensively educated, moderately intelligent, too-high ideas of self, and a wish to write. Had I only liked Plath as well. Perhaps I should write manifestos? Like Pound did. Imagism, vorticism.
If you read Norwegian Morgenbladet published an interesting article on Gender Theory. With the conclusion that it must be hard work, being conscerned about gender in all aspects of society. Being a highly devoted anything must be fatiguing. But theories are such fun.
Disclaimer: this was all induced by a high dosage of English Grammar, and wine. Neither to be taken in abundance without supervision, and absolutely not together. Now I'm off to bed to indulge my sinful pleasure: Cornwell. It's bland writing, but I enjoy the characters and what she does with them.
(Tangent: "We're also asked to believe that Oskar's grandfather, who lost his fiancée, Anna, during the firebombing of Dresden, was so traumatized by his experiences that he stopped speaking and took to writing down everything instead: "If something made me want to laugh, I'd write 'Ha ha ha!' and instead of singing in the shower I would write out the lyrics of my favorite songs, the ink would turn the water blue or red or green, and the music would run down my legs."" NY Times' review of Extremely Loud .... Belief is not a factor of literature. Just as reliable narrators are not. What transpires in fictional discourse is neither true nor false, because it is fiction. No good piece of fiction is ever reliable. It isn't the reliability of it, but the implicity; all that is not said, images, ideas, thoughts. The idea of theme as a direct product of the author is also faulty. Theme is a product of the reader. The rammifications of which I will not deal with now.)
Wouldn't this make for a beautifully structured film or novel? A story of some sort, perhaps several – no, on second thought, not several; it would be too cluttered –, with entirely unrelated tangents thrown in. If I could only put my visions to paper. Which, of course, makes me the overly predictable middle-class child. Expensively educated, moderately intelligent, too-high ideas of self, and a wish to write. Had I only liked Plath as well. Perhaps I should write manifestos? Like Pound did. Imagism, vorticism.
If you read Norwegian Morgenbladet published an interesting article on Gender Theory. With the conclusion that it must be hard work, being conscerned about gender in all aspects of society. Being a highly devoted anything must be fatiguing. But theories are such fun.
Disclaimer: this was all induced by a high dosage of English Grammar, and wine. Neither to be taken in abundance without supervision, and absolutely not together. Now I'm off to bed to indulge my sinful pleasure: Cornwell. It's bland writing, but I enjoy the characters and what she does with them.
