Sunday, April 17, 2005
No devil but division (an old song.)
So the problem with the move from more poetic structure to more prosaic is specifically the shift away from the vago sort of beauty to the demands of story. I don't want a story where actions/words are overly emblematized as larger things, when—in fact—their most immediate level of reality is their own.
Is this the distrust of metaphor? More and more as I think about it, the Realist presumptions of literature feel weaker and weaker. I guess people have been striving against Realism for a long time. My own preferences take me in very different directions. But I still feel funny pressures to write—
Well here is the question. What else does structure get to do, besides psychological, realist, narrative fiction? My answer—Calvino's Invisible Cities. I would love other examples of highly structured works that do not follow the presumptions of realism. Hm. How does a book work like a device?
Use only in situations of extreme stimulation, when separation is desired. It is also possible, though inadvisable, to use in times of great isolation, in order to evoke the sensation of a distant, undetectable overstimulation. At such points, it is essential that the wearer slowly transition to the natural quiet of the surrounding, and find patience and acceptance in it. Within existing isolation, one can capture a strand of self-induced isolation.
But it's connection that I want. It's connection that saves.
How often have I said it, known it? I write about/celebrate isolation, but that is the problem. I run from sincerity, I run from connection, but these are forces that heal. Narrative fiction integrates, gives purpose, gives significance. Non-narrative fiction splinters, questions purpose. We have worked through a century now of isolation, of angst, of disintegration. The
thing is destroyed and then pieced back together. In Art Brut, we let the diseased, the insane, the handicapped do the
reconnection. We trust only their sincerity. Everyone else's is dangerous, is a tool of manipulation.
Things in my life that deepen isolation at the same time that they provide the semblance of connection:
Is this the distrust of metaphor? More and more as I think about it, the Realist presumptions of literature feel weaker and weaker. I guess people have been striving against Realism for a long time. My own preferences take me in very different directions. But I still feel funny pressures to write—
Well here is the question. What else does structure get to do, besides psychological, realist, narrative fiction? My answer—Calvino's Invisible Cities. I would love other examples of highly structured works that do not follow the presumptions of realism. Hm. How does a book work like a device?
- The book goes directly onto the head.
- Unfold the flap. Remove. Cut to the shape of ears.
- Remove visors along perforation. Fold down tab. Position as necessary to filter/block vision.
- In extreme situations, pages may be removed, shredded, and wet. Work into paste, Coat the tongue and block the nostrils. Exposed skin should be similarly treated.
Use only in situations of extreme stimulation, when separation is desired. It is also possible, though inadvisable, to use in times of great isolation, in order to evoke the sensation of a distant, undetectable overstimulation. At such points, it is essential that the wearer slowly transition to the natural quiet of the surrounding, and find patience and acceptance in it. Within existing isolation, one can capture a strand of self-induced isolation.
But it's connection that I want. It's connection that saves.
How often have I said it, known it? I write about/celebrate isolation, but that is the problem. I run from sincerity, I run from connection, but these are forces that heal. Narrative fiction integrates, gives purpose, gives significance. Non-narrative fiction splinters, questions purpose. We have worked through a century now of isolation, of angst, of disintegration. The
thing is destroyed and then pieced back together. In Art Brut, we let the diseased, the insane, the handicapped do the
reconnection. We trust only their sincerity. Everyone else's is dangerous, is a tool of manipulation.
Things in my life that deepen isolation at the same time that they provide the semblance of connection:
- Online personals.
- The rows of images in them.
- The one-paragraph snippets they provide.
- The immense number of them.
- The seeming promise of them.
- The flattening effect of them: everyone, desirable or undesirable, can be contained, even constrained, to just a few inches.
- Flattened desire.
- Flattened expectations.
- DISTANCE FROM MY DREAMS.
