The Namesake (See Above)
I thought that it would sound profound to start off with something like: "We all stand on the edges of our own, personal oblivions. Eventually, we resign ourselves to throwing ourself into it, and, thus, life begins." But, really, it rang way too melodramatic and existentialism is getting passé.
We write with our right, we think with our left, and, in the middle, we register everything null and void. I'm standing on the sands of time, and the ocean of blood is washing it all away. Ernest Hemingway was an overrated drunk with a dismal world-view, but I still like his stuff. Edgar Allen Poe never wrote a single true word, either.
Metallica are hacks. Stream (stram?) of conscious is overrated, too. William Faulkner did it best, and everyone else is just playing catch-up to a dead drunk. Ouch. Honesty is the best policy, except when it comes to literature. Authors are just fancy liars. Some of them even wear fancy pants, but very few, these days.
Poetry is a dusty tradition full of more symbolism than rhetoric, and what's a symbol without an allusion? Ask Mister Cummings. Everyone reads the same stories, over and over, and nobody's clever. Everybody writes the same stories, over and over, and . . . Nobody's clever, not even me—especially not me.
He worked for all he was worth, whittling away the darkness until he could see the light of creation and could cup it between his hands, eyes agape in awe and mouth open in horror, the contorting lines of his face evaporating away with the slow realization of its ultimate redundancy. Nihilism and existential bullshit free in every fourth cup of coffee sold at Starbucks, would you like a coupon? This is practice, just an exercise, but is it more, and, if it is, is that sad?
Geometrists and absurdists write of the same material, just in different ways: the shapes of our universe, how everything connects into some kind of polygon. There's a disturbing tendency towards rounder ones, and you know what they say about wheels on buses. I rode the bus for twelve years. I still do. Shit.
What have we learnt today, children? "Nobody knows!"
We write with our right, we think with our left, and, in the middle, we register everything null and void. I'm standing on the sands of time, and the ocean of blood is washing it all away. Ernest Hemingway was an overrated drunk with a dismal world-view, but I still like his stuff. Edgar Allen Poe never wrote a single true word, either.
Metallica are hacks. Stream (stram?) of conscious is overrated, too. William Faulkner did it best, and everyone else is just playing catch-up to a dead drunk. Ouch. Honesty is the best policy, except when it comes to literature. Authors are just fancy liars. Some of them even wear fancy pants, but very few, these days.
Poetry is a dusty tradition full of more symbolism than rhetoric, and what's a symbol without an allusion? Ask Mister Cummings. Everyone reads the same stories, over and over, and nobody's clever. Everybody writes the same stories, over and over, and . . . Nobody's clever, not even me—especially not me.
He worked for all he was worth, whittling away the darkness until he could see the light of creation and could cup it between his hands, eyes agape in awe and mouth open in horror, the contorting lines of his face evaporating away with the slow realization of its ultimate redundancy. Nihilism and existential bullshit free in every fourth cup of coffee sold at Starbucks, would you like a coupon? This is practice, just an exercise, but is it more, and, if it is, is that sad?
Geometrists and absurdists write of the same material, just in different ways: the shapes of our universe, how everything connects into some kind of polygon. There's a disturbing tendency towards rounder ones, and you know what they say about wheels on buses. I rode the bus for twelve years. I still do. Shit.
What have we learnt today, children? "Nobody knows!"
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
9:23 PM
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