But when you talk about Nabokov and Coover, you’re talking about real geniuses, the writers who weathered real shock and invented this stuff in contemporary fiction. But after the pioneers always come the crank turners, the little gray people who take the machines others have built and just turn the crank, and little pellets of metafiction come out the other end. The crank-turners capitalize for a while on sheer fashion, and they get their plaudits and grants and buy their IRAs and retire to the Hamptons well out of range of the eventual blast radius. There are some interesting parallels between postmodern crank-turners and what’s happened since post-structural theory took off here in the U.S., why there’s such a big backlash against post-structuralism going on now. It’s the crank-turners fault. I think the crank-turners replaced the critic as the real angel of death as far as literary movements are concerned, now. You get some bona fide artists who come along and really divide by zero and weather some serious shit-storms of shock and ridicule in order to promulgate some really important ideas. Once they triumph, though, and their ideas become legitimate and accepted, the crank-turners and wannabes come running to the machine, and out pour the gray pellets and now the whole thing’s become a hollow form, just another institution of fashion. Take a look at some of the critical-theory Ph.D. dissertations being written now. They’re like de Man and Foucault in the mouth of a dull child. Academia and commercial culture have somehow become these gigantic mechanisms of commodification that drain the weight and color out of even the most radical new advances. It’s a surreal inversion of the death-by-neglect that used to kill off prescient art. Now prescient art suffers death-by acceptance. We love things to death, now. Then we retire to the Hamptons.– de vcs sabem quem
There are logs– http://literarylondon.blogspot.com.br/2008/08/derek-walcott-on-jean-rhys.html
wrinkled like the hand of an old woman
who wrote with a fine courtesy of that world
when grace was common as malaria,
when the gas lanterns’ hiss on the verandah
drew the aunts out like moths
doomed to be pressed in a book, to fall
into the brown oblivion of an album,
embroiderers of silence
for whom the arches of the Thames,
and the petit-point reflections of London Bridge
fade on the hammock cushions from the sun,
where one night
a child stares at the windless candles flame
from the corner of a lion-footed couch
at the erect white light,
her right hand married to Jane Eyre,
foreseeing that her own white wedding dress
will be white paper.
“A Drunken Man’s Praise Of Sobriety” — William Butler Yeats
The chart and its transcription that W.H. Auden handed out to the students who took his 1943 class at Swarthmore, ‘Romanticism from Rousseau to Hitler.’ The chart is something like everything Auden can think to say about the world.
‘Romanticism from Rousseau to Hitler’ was the second class Auden taught at Swarthmore. The final exam of the first (fall, 1942 ‘English Literature during the Reign of Elizabeth I’) consisted of only one question:
Explain why the devil is (a) sad and (b) honest.
For the fandoms...
Que razão Stephen forneceu para declinar da oferta de Bloom?
Ser ele hidrófobo, odiando o contato parcial por imersão ou total por submersão em água fria (tendo seu último banho tido lugar no mês de outubro do ano anterior), opondo-se às substâncias aquosas do vidro e do cristal, desconfiando de aquosidades de pensamento e de linguagem.
O que impediu Bloom de dar a Stephen conselhos de higiene e profilaxia aos quais dever-se-iam acrescentar sugestões referentes a uma ablução preliminar da cabeça e à contração dos músculos com rápido borrifar sobre rosto e pescoço e a região torácica e epigástrica em casos de banhos de mar ou de rio, sendo as partes da anatomia humana mais sensíveis ao frio a nuca, o estômago e o tênar ou a sola do pé?
A incompatibilidade da aquosidade com a errática originalidade do gênio.
We are on ground contiguous to the ground people tread when they argue that “Lycidas” is insincere. For sincerity - Joyce is telling us - can damn. Not long before he blew his brains out, Ernest Hemingway recalled how decades earlier in Paris he had used to overcome writer’s block: “Do not worry,”, he would say to himself. “You have always written before and you will write now. Alll you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” Remembering where this led can give one the shivers. By the time he’d used up the true sentences that he knew (how many does anyone know?) he was getting famous, and the enterprise of /being/ Ernest Hemingway- /doing/ things so that true sentences could be written about them - had to be conducted in public. Constantly being watched, by the world and, more disconcertingly, by himself, he was soon evading himself as systematically as Poldy evades Molly. His subject had become Ernest Hemingway and he had to keep developing the character. The famous Style became performance, began eying itself, imitating itself. It develop formulae: flat nouns, short clauses linked by “and”. The day came when he could live with none of this no longer.– Joyce’s Voices do Hugh Kenner. BICHO! Tem mais umas tantas páginas de brilhantismo onde o cara explica o que é Estilo e o uso estilístico do Joyce pra sinceridade/roleplaying do Bloom e NA VIDA. :~ (o final é complicado, faz pensar em outros mas sei lá quem sou eu né)
a era dos gifs acaba de chegar ao fim
q coisa absolutamente perfeita
HE KNOCKED THE BUCKET OFF
AND THERE WAS ANOTHER BUCKET UNDERNEATH