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Showing posts with label cledonism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cledonism. Show all posts

Sunday, 29 May 2011

Untitled, 29052011

Disease is also one's material.

Graham Greene

That a man of my age remains limited by his lack of experiences and hardship to understand, agreeably, the significance of literary masterpieces is simply the mark of a bias hoisted upon the associations of age, the confabulation of bygone memories, and the indulgence in literary excesses.

Untitled, 29052011

Disease is also one's material.

Graham Greene

That a man of my age remains limited by his lack of experiences and hardship to understand, agreeably, the significance of literary masterpieces is simply the mark of a bias hoisted upon the associations of age, the confabulation of bygone memories, and the indulgence in literary excesses.

Saturday, 28 May 2011

Untitled, 28052011

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.

Untitled, 28052011

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.