12-04-2017, 07:04 AM
I always write books. The Baudelaire book, the Whitman book, not a collection, but BOOK as FORM. And I always fail, the things I write are the products of frustrated failure. The book seems more and more the goal, and the botched attempts more and more the fruit. And I have a lot of hatred toward what I write, as pale versions of what I set out to write. But this failure is the subject . . . From Poe and Borges, unable to sustain a novelistic or epic narrative to the Artaud fragments and abortions and Kafka rough drafts, and the critical evaluation of Hart Crane's poetry of failure . . . con't under the line, in a few minutes . . .
Rimbaud wrote a prose poetry of disillusionment, Henry Miller and Bukowski wrote an art of desperation and limitations . . . con't in a some moments . . . having rabid technical difficulties . . .
Now we have generations studying and celebrating Failures of Intention, Bravado in Insecurity. I can't, it may be a weakness, but I can't celebrate these things. I can, however, celebrate and indulge in and, more importantly, engage in an aesthetic of uncertainty. An atmosphere of mystery nuanced with complexity. . . . Which I assume in the title of this post. I find myself in disparate realms and levels rather than systems and wholes. I find wholes energized by the disparate sections and technical difficulties that essentially energize and rectify our forms. And . . .
It seems to me that that's what books have always done, reconcile the disparate into form, structure. But currently, there is usually too much strain on the strange formlessness, or too much on conservatie, reactive form, and not the general lyrical value of moving structure on mere happenstance delight in passionate and tense creation. The book as sophisticated, though boundless, imagination.
conservative, I meant. . . . The edit button won't work . . .
Great books are still written. But great books aren't as relevant as these fragments and rough estimations that better suit our so-and-so situation. Is there a value difference between these fragments that have their finger on the many pulses of our time and the more classical perfections that some writers are still capable of producing?
Rimbaud wrote a prose poetry of disillusionment, Henry Miller and Bukowski wrote an art of desperation and limitations . . . con't in a some moments . . . having rabid technical difficulties . . .
Now we have generations studying and celebrating Failures of Intention, Bravado in Insecurity. I can't, it may be a weakness, but I can't celebrate these things. I can, however, celebrate and indulge in and, more importantly, engage in an aesthetic of uncertainty. An atmosphere of mystery nuanced with complexity. . . . Which I assume in the title of this post. I find myself in disparate realms and levels rather than systems and wholes. I find wholes energized by the disparate sections and technical difficulties that essentially energize and rectify our forms. And . . .
It seems to me that that's what books have always done, reconcile the disparate into form, structure. But currently, there is usually too much strain on the strange formlessness, or too much on conservatie, reactive form, and not the general lyrical value of moving structure on mere happenstance delight in passionate and tense creation. The book as sophisticated, though boundless, imagination.
conservative, I meant. . . . The edit button won't work . . .
Great books are still written. But great books aren't as relevant as these fragments and rough estimations that better suit our so-and-so situation. Is there a value difference between these fragments that have their finger on the many pulses of our time and the more classical perfections that some writers are still capable of producing?