Saturday, July 26, 2003
I was at Value Village yesterday buying a Nintendo and I found this experimental novel from the 1930's called The Black Book. The author, Laurence [Something], invents words and is really pretentious. TS Eliot called this novel "the first piece of fiction that gave [him] hope for the future of prose," or something along those lines. Looks interesting. I will keep you posted.
Enough with the regurgitated baby food...the people demand fresh innovation. So here it goes...123:
"Becuz of the way you breathe -- don't blow it"? (not an epic, however); or hello 21st century
when is it a must to break from trust?
is see i be on the cusp of lust
16, 18, 27, 16
playing with the syntax that you hide
this is, of course, a daydream
this is, of course, the sun
did you ever think you had more to become
i'm letting out
my thoughts on a traincar in New Jersey
a man who looks like Lou Reed whispers confession into
my ear
i believe he's real
not a figment of my neurosis
but if he really is Lou Reed then what's with the talk of the modern novel
let's go: stairs, hello, two-three let's go
eclipse the moon, force me to swoon
fill me up with all the stale whiskey of youth
and the truth
hello 21st century
hello 21st century
hello 21st century
hello 21st century
this is vulgar
the way you take a perfectly-good fear and make
it beautiful
manipulate everything until it's you:
metaphysics take it up the ass
arise, arise, arise
the is the agon
the 21st century man
the collapse
and back to the chorus
"Becuz of the way you breathe -- don't blow it"? (not an epic, however); or hello 21st century
when is it a must to break from trust?
is see i be on the cusp of lust
16, 18, 27, 16
playing with the syntax that you hide
this is, of course, a daydream
this is, of course, the sun
did you ever think you had more to become
i'm letting out
my thoughts on a traincar in New Jersey
a man who looks like Lou Reed whispers confession into
my ear
i believe he's real
not a figment of my neurosis
but if he really is Lou Reed then what's with the talk of the modern novel
let's go: stairs, hello, two-three let's go
eclipse the moon, force me to swoon
fill me up with all the stale whiskey of youth
and the truth
hello 21st century
hello 21st century
hello 21st century
hello 21st century
this is vulgar
the way you take a perfectly-good fear and make
it beautiful
manipulate everything until it's you:
metaphysics take it up the ass
arise, arise, arise
the is the agon
the 21st century man
the collapse
and back to the chorus
Wednesday, July 23, 2003
What is Literature?
A work of literature is not a butterfly, is not a clown, is not really a spinning top, or a funhouse, or a freak show, regardless of the metaphors Sartre and I would like to use. The readers’ act of interpretation is restricted by the fact that they are interpreting a specific something, if we are to value criticism as meaningful. We could say that in Crime and Punishment Raskolnikov is a hummingbird and the police in the story are cats. But Dostoevsky did not write these things and, therefore, this type of non-contingent critical analysis does not have meaning: there is no fundamental metaphysical basis to stand on. Only the writer can provide this.
A work of literature is not a butterfly, is not a clown, is not really a spinning top, or a funhouse, or a freak show, regardless of the metaphors Sartre and I would like to use. The readers’ act of interpretation is restricted by the fact that they are interpreting a specific something, if we are to value criticism as meaningful. We could say that in Crime and Punishment Raskolnikov is a hummingbird and the police in the story are cats. But Dostoevsky did not write these things and, therefore, this type of non-contingent critical analysis does not have meaning: there is no fundamental metaphysical basis to stand on. Only the writer can provide this.
Siamese Twins
Two pairs of siamese twins inhabit a womb together (scared)
and remark how life is so inter-connected.
Two car sirens blare: lovers, listening to Bach.
Comets crash together in space; there is no doubt.
Lovers divorce; there is no pain.
And I am left wondering what to do with my day.
I’ll try reach my identical twin, if she is not befallen by sin;
and if he remembers to remember my
face.
Two pairs of siamese twins inhabit a womb together (scared)
and remark how life is so inter-connected.
Two car sirens blare: lovers, listening to Bach.
Comets crash together in space; there is no doubt.
Lovers divorce; there is no pain.
And I am left wondering what to do with my day.
I’ll try reach my identical twin, if she is not befallen by sin;
and if he remembers to remember my
face.
Sunday, July 20, 2003
Hunter and Me
I have decided that this blog is basically a literary supplement. It is about literature -- my own and other's.
If you are interested in any of the pieces, and wish to respond, you can e-mail me at egerton@interchange.ubc.ca or hugheliot@hotmail.com, or call me at home (of course). Feel free to let me know that there is in fact someone who reads the blog.
Recently, I have been a bit behind on my reading but have managed to look at Hunter S. Thompson's anthology of Gonzo journalism, Songs of the Doomed Vol. 3. Reviewers have trashed Hunter S. Thompson's work of the last ten years, describng it as as regurgitation of his past literary ouput. (Give the guy a break -- it is amazing that he can write at all with the amount of drinking and drugs he has done.) However, the anthologies, to which Songs of the Doomed belongs, serve as a good overview of Hunter's writing and twisted imagination.
In the volume I'm reading, the first piece is called "Let the Trials Begin." I'm not quite sure if it is fictional/mythical or biographical. Although with Hunter's writing you get the feeling that it is usually a bit of both.
"Let the Trials Begin" recalls Hunter's late-night break-in to a library, so that he can research "the Law." There, he meets a janitor/rapist named Andrew who has an electronic device attached to his ankle because of a conviction. After much drinking of whisky, Hunter convinces Andrew to break of the electronic device, storm to the courthouse, and demand his exoneration. Hunter does this because he wants to watch the rapist get beat up by court security, and because he has found out that rapist is plagirizing him.
Here is a quotation from that story:
"He chuckled and tried to sprint off, but the thing attached to his ankle made him stumble. "Goddamnit!" he screamed. "I'd kill to get rid of this thing!"
"Don't say that," [Hunter] snapped. " We are innocent men! We are working within the system..and besides, I have think I have some good crank outside in the car."
I have decided that this blog is basically a literary supplement. It is about literature -- my own and other's.
If you are interested in any of the pieces, and wish to respond, you can e-mail me at egerton@interchange.ubc.ca or hugheliot@hotmail.com, or call me at home (of course). Feel free to let me know that there is in fact someone who reads the blog.
Recently, I have been a bit behind on my reading but have managed to look at Hunter S. Thompson's anthology of Gonzo journalism, Songs of the Doomed Vol. 3. Reviewers have trashed Hunter S. Thompson's work of the last ten years, describng it as as regurgitation of his past literary ouput. (Give the guy a break -- it is amazing that he can write at all with the amount of drinking and drugs he has done.) However, the anthologies, to which Songs of the Doomed belongs, serve as a good overview of Hunter's writing and twisted imagination.
In the volume I'm reading, the first piece is called "Let the Trials Begin." I'm not quite sure if it is fictional/mythical or biographical. Although with Hunter's writing you get the feeling that it is usually a bit of both.
"Let the Trials Begin" recalls Hunter's late-night break-in to a library, so that he can research "the Law." There, he meets a janitor/rapist named Andrew who has an electronic device attached to his ankle because of a conviction. After much drinking of whisky, Hunter convinces Andrew to break of the electronic device, storm to the courthouse, and demand his exoneration. Hunter does this because he wants to watch the rapist get beat up by court security, and because he has found out that rapist is plagirizing him.
Here is a quotation from that story:
"He chuckled and tried to sprint off, but the thing attached to his ankle made him stumble. "Goddamnit!" he screamed. "I'd kill to get rid of this thing!"
"Don't say that," [Hunter] snapped. " We are innocent men! We are working within the system..and besides, I have think I have some good crank outside in the car."
