Why does literary theory seem so esoteric?
Why do all great novels seem to have been steeped in sorrowful and injurious experiences? It's as if they are all reflections, didactic in some part, seeking to provide literary form to anguish experienced in the way of knowing the "perfect" life. In the same vein, is there no literary form for non-reactionary, non-adventurous emotions? What about day-to-day activities? What about the small things that cledonistically put together the mind of a man who goes to sleep at night with it? All the literary exercises past with desperation as motive are tiring on the senses.
Boredom is a perfect start.
No comments:
Post a Comment