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knott getting bent

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  • Trinidad Cruz
    It has been the fashion, well maybe even the psychosomatically repressed obsesssion, of certain writers, to fancy that literature is at its best when used as a
    Message 1 of 3 , Sep 2, 2006
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      It has been the fashion, well maybe even the psychosomatically
      repressed obsesssion, of certain writers, to fancy that literature is
      at its best when used as a physical tool; a tool not along the lines
      of the bio-chemical flood inducing tweaking of emotion that is the
      norm for the passionate writer, that chain or flood of image producing
      word configurations that stimulates a passage beyond the words
      themselves in that most delicate half-tone bargain between the readers
      imagination and the writers imagination; but rather an
      anti-representational tool not unlike a crude impersonal hammer, an
      indiscriminant literary machine pounding just for the sake of pounding
      and the satiation of the writer's perverse glee in its power of havoc.
      In a certain sense it is like launching an unguided missile inside a
      house and standing back to observe: "wow it works, look at that sucker
      go," no matter of the occupants of the house. For me this kind of
      writing is a break with trust; because in general there is no gift
      from the author, no emotional involvement or price to pay with any
      subjective presentation other than watching the tool work and
      considering oneself smart or edgy for having induced a shift in
      perception; indeed a shift in perception just for the sake of itself;
      one that cannot persuade to any solidarity with the beauty of the
      human condition; just a parlor trick played on a drunk and no free
      beer. For years I considered the barren disingenousness in this kind
      of writing much the same as foffula, in this case catchy quirky mental
      experiences rather than lyics, no soaring on brilliant Parkeresque
      passages, a construct that leaves human emotion a kind of suspended
      treat on a stick tied to the readers back to be chased and never
      caught. Now I consider it a deviancy or psychosomatic mutation in the
      writer unable to embrace any human solidarity; a delusion of sorts
      projected from the writer's darkest closet of singularity out to the
      reader like a personal and indeed suicidal poison: "I can't live like
      this, so why should you." It is not a high and strikingly vulnerable
      misanthropy like Saul Bellow, nor thrust through with compassion like
      Camus, nor even a pure inner war of personal position like TiJean; and
      in this failure it does not find desolation at all, but an insulation
      where hell is other people made so in its own perverse construction.
      It is the neutron bomb of literature; (the reader dies and the book
      lives) and I absolutely reject that it does anything other than make
      a show of humanism just to perpetrate a readership as its foil. The
      literature of Julian Barnes, and sometimes Eco, falls into this sad
      category. It is impressed with itself and promotes nothing that the
      reader can gain, because there is no tangible sacrifice or even
      personal risk taking by the writer in the pages; he KNOWS it will
      make your head ache and is completely satisfied with that result
      alone, as it is all he KNOWS. He is no honorable writer, just a bully
      and a show off. He is of the same emotional chiastolite out of which
      the priests, wichdoctors, magi, Santeros and every ilk of
      soteriologistic idealogue have been chiseled and hewn: "I found my
      delusion to be powerful so it must be good". His kind was always
      mightily impressive to Victorian ladies, but these are modern times,
      and he should have remained in those parlors where he would not
      attract the attention of the scientific world to his ludicrous and
      subliminally manipulative view and suffer the consequences of
      adulthood. It is a shabby mentalism appropriate for another more
      dilletante venue. There are big boys here, and though we are
      occasionally bored with it, we do take note of petty literary crimes
      of indecency. You wanted to know what you KNOW. I have answered that
      question. You should move on. I will cure your headache one way or
      another if you remain, and then poor soul, you will be like me: having
      to ordinarily bleed for any progress toward clam color differentiation.

      Trinidad
    • Jeff Cunningham
      Between truth and the search for truth,opt for the second. ... __________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Tired of spam? Yahoo! Mail
      Message 2 of 3 , Sep 2, 2006
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        Between truth and the search for truth,opt for the
        second.



        --- Trinidad Cruz <cruzprdb@...> wrote:

        > It has been the fashion, well maybe even the
        > psychosomatically
        > repressed obsesssion, of certain writers, to fancy
        > that literature is
        > at its best when used as a physical tool; a tool not
        > along the lines
        > of the bio-chemical flood inducing tweaking of
        > emotion that is the
        > norm for the passionate writer, that chain or flood
        > of image producing
        > word configurations that stimulates a passage beyond
        > the words
        > themselves in that most delicate half-tone bargain
        > between the readers
        > imagination and the writers imagination; but rather
        > an
        > anti-representational tool not unlike a crude
        > impersonal hammer, an
        > indiscriminant literary machine pounding just for
        > the sake of pounding
        > and the satiation of the writer's perverse glee in
        > its power of havoc.
        > In a certain sense it is like launching an unguided
        > missile inside a
        > house and standing back to observe: "wow it works,
        > look at that sucker
        > go," no matter of the occupants of the house. For me
        > this kind of
        > writing is a break with trust; because in general
        > there is no gift
        > from the author, no emotional involvement or price
        > to pay with any
        > subjective presentation other than watching the tool
        > work and
        > considering oneself smart or edgy for having induced
        > a shift in
        > perception; indeed a shift in perception just for
        > the sake of itself;
        > one that cannot persuade to any solidarity with the
        > beauty of the
        > human condition; just a parlor trick played on a
        > drunk and no free
        > beer. For years I considered the barren
        > disingenousness in this kind
        > of writing much the same as foffula, in this case
        > catchy quirky mental
        > experiences rather than lyics, no soaring on
        > brilliant Parkeresque
        > passages, a construct that leaves human emotion a
        > kind of suspended
        > treat on a stick tied to the readers back to be
        > chased and never
        > caught. Now I consider it a deviancy or
        > psychosomatic mutation in the
        > writer unable to embrace any human solidarity; a
        > delusion of sorts
        > projected from the writer's darkest closet of
        > singularity out to the
        > reader like a personal and indeed suicidal poison:
        > "I can't live like
        > this, so why should you." It is not a high and
        > strikingly vulnerable
        > misanthropy like Saul Bellow, nor thrust through
        > with compassion like
        > Camus, nor even a pure inner war of personal
        > position like TiJean; and
        > in this failure it does not find desolation at all,
        > but an insulation
        > where hell is other people made so in its own
        > perverse construction.
        > It is the neutron bomb of literature; (the reader
        > dies and the book
        > lives) and I absolutely reject that it does
        > anything other than make
        > a show of humanism just to perpetrate a readership
        > as its foil. The
        > literature of Julian Barnes, and sometimes Eco,
        > falls into this sad
        > category. It is impressed with itself and promotes
        > nothing that the
        > reader can gain, because there is no tangible
        > sacrifice or even
        > personal risk taking by the writer in the pages; he
        > KNOWS it will
        > make your head ache and is completely satisfied with
        > that result
        > alone, as it is all he KNOWS. He is no honorable
        > writer, just a bully
        > and a show off. He is of the same emotional
        > chiastolite out of which
        > the priests, wichdoctors, magi, Santeros and every
        > ilk of
        > soteriologistic idealogue have been chiseled and
        > hewn: "I found my
        > delusion to be powerful so it must be good". His
        > kind was always
        > mightily impressive to Victorian ladies, but these
        > are modern times,
        > and he should have remained in those parlors where
        > he would not
        > attract the attention of the scientific world to his
        > ludicrous and
        > subliminally manipulative view and suffer the
        > consequences of
        > adulthood. It is a shabby mentalism appropriate for
        > another more
        > dilletante venue. There are big boys here, and
        > though we are
        > occasionally bored with it, we do take note of petty
        > literary crimes
        > of indecency. You wanted to know what you KNOW. I
        > have answered that
        > question. You should move on. I will cure your
        > headache one way or
        > another if you remain, and then poor soul, you will
        > be like me: having
        > to ordinarily bleed for any progress toward clam
        > color differentiation.
        >
        > Trinidad
        >
        >
        >
        >
        >


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      • Knott
        You insist my words are violent, and I insist it is your interpretation of them because you are violent. ... please. ... It shouldn t. You just don t have
        Message 3 of 3 , Sep 2, 2006
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          You insist my words are violent, and I insist it is your interpretation of them because you
          are violent.


          > It is the neutron bomb of literature

          please.

          > he KNOWS it will
          > make your head ache

          It shouldn't. You just don't have answers to the pertinent questions, and you are pissed
          that there is such a big hole in your romance that you can't patch.

          What is after the revolution?

          If it makes your head ache it is because I am asking you to think through what you are
          promoting...Are you telling us it is too much trouble? You whine about thewriting, try
          simply doing what it asks and maybe then it will prove valuable.

          > There are big boys here

          If there are, then they should own up to their ideas and flesh them out with more than the
          flour and water paste and newspaper strips they are using now.

          > I will cure your headache one way or
          > another if you remain, and then poor soul, you will be like me: having
          > to ordinarily bleed for any progress toward clam color differentiation.

          I see a regular open threat there. Why?

          Sauntering East
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