Tuesday, November 15, 2011

A Prose

Last gasp, first gaps. Conditioned by my sense of an ending.

Hands outstretched in the darkness, finding no one. Lily Briscoe wept.

A mother is the original objective correlative. "An especial temptation for that most dangerous type of critic: the critic with a mind which is naturally of the creative order, but which through some weakness in creative power exercises itself in criticism instead." "The Mona Lisa of literature." The suprematist black square of literature. The useful urinal of literature. The video installation of book trailers. One and three chairs. One and three Hamlets, "like the sonnets, is full of some stuff that the writer could not drag to light, contemplate, or manipulate into art."

"as if, given the sequence of events, these words were automatically released by the last event in the series."

"because it is in excess of the facts as they appear"

"his disgust is occasioned by his mother, but that his mother is not an adequate equivalent for it"

He is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone.

"he cannot understand; he cannot objectify it, and it therefore remains to poison life and obstruct action"

Too much of water hast thou.

"it is just because her character is so negative and insignificant"

Well, my lord.

"it is less than madness and more than feigned"

Ay, my lord.

"the buffoonery of an emotion"

Ply his music.

"under compulsion of what experience he attempted to express the inexpressibly horrible"

His purse is empty already; all's golden words are spent. We should have to understand things which Shakespeare did not understand himself.

Which the Earl of Oxford understood.

Most likely one proceeds without plan, in pieces, looking forward to the moment of abandonment. 

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