It is not quite like that with the promised deliciousness, you can sense the lack of culture that comes with the age of the 1990s, but what spreads out in between in this work is the digression that ultimately seems to be nothing more than a note and the sorcerer's apprentice's mess. But it is provided with the spirit of freshness and with a humor that is sometimes almost over the top.
There are no books that you read, only books that can be read, and sometimes you find yourself in a similar way to in relationships, basically you can follow this principle all the way to the website world, but back then when Dyer was there
Lawcrence
tried to work on a serious project and had to realize how unsuitable he is and how he made a virtue out of necessity. What I like and why he seems to be my brother in spirit is also this endless strolling between what you have planned and what you think will be done. The delicious metaphor with the personal Bodhi tree is underlined in bold.
And his Laura is really important, without her I wouldn't have been able to endure two hundred pages of drivel, how every memory he teases out of my own travels practically makes me giggle with myself, that really only one Laura can bear it for a while, sex sells a lifetime.
He is so wonderfully honest, he doesn't give a damn about the whole slave and sycophant lobby, a bit like Terry Pratchett for pragmatists and existentialists without the courage to dance forward.
A complainer before the Lord, and unfortunately:
I wouldn't want to spend ten hours with this funny but unbearable monster, whose alter ego whistles away in the forest, and which you leave not one bit wiser but sometimes even well entertained, just as suddenly and pointlessly as this book actually is.
The whole horror of 1990s society and the human burdens that arose from it is so wonderfully caricatured that I will use it as a reference tool. I am ruthless, critical? Then read Dyver, I'll pass the ball on. And how he manages to get to the heart of Italy, the Lawrence essay thing, this book within the book that is scattered throughout and then struggles to be interesting, as I said, it is very foreign to me, but I still like reading it and that is probably his best achievement.
Because it shows that he knows how to sneak into my heart in a sapiosexual way, because he lets me ride along on his Vespa and pities my understanding of English unculture.
For a scholarly rumination. And somehow it's modern, because all the crap comes back, because the rowing-shirt-brainless spastics from Geifhausen shred everything until they are washed away again by the wide spirit.
And these unique places:
Like when he unmasks the whole seafood craze almost casually. Just in a real fit of rage, one could use the energies in a useful way. To get something out of an artist's life, he succeeds in the Dolce Vita banality perfectly.
He is really stone-age Picasso-esque. Must be an old dog now, a cheerful old piper. Back to Lawrence. And this Rilke, who gets involved in so many things. Who needs more of this antiquity?
Yes, learning subtleties, sometimes I want to show my daughter important works of art, then I blush,
What do we want from dinosaurs, what from amoebas?
We are today, we assign arbitrary values to these old things, surreal sums without meaning. And everything from the 90s is infinitely old. Look at the fashion. The video clips, for God's sake. I've been to Italy a lot too, I probably had more fun than he did. Actually, only because of Laura.
And if a meaningless book can give me so much feedback, a diversion that keeps me smiling and complaining all week, then I'm not afraid, but we don't trust any work before 2016. If we look at it from an archaeological perspective, at some point there were the first signs of useful cynicism and sarcastic irony beyond Monthy Python and Harald Schmidt. The stuff is still long-winded, you can't read it to the end without putting it down forty times a day.
You are almost forced to get out of the sparrow brain that Dyver projects so meticulously. This neurotic writerly creature that takes away our hope of ever seeing healthy art. In the cutest sense of the word, of course. Sheer Rage is a classic. But classics are no longer necessary. Like his sea creatures, there are so many bones and unbearable things in this book that you wonder when will it finally start. Because you don't recognize it as a book.
Only Welsh got away from me quicker without regretfully digging through the bin afterwards. The trick was to attract attention by any means possible. Although the means were not very impressive.
Instead of consistency of enlightenment like Adams or Pratchett, I don't see anything that would make me ever read a second book by him, it's kind of like a wasted afternoon on a Badoo date.
Unsolicited Badoo date that lasted a week. His success probably comes from the fact that many people are like him, which is what attracted me at first, but of course HE is in the book format of a writer. I never want to and will never sideline prehistoric colleagues.
What makes me curious is how the last pages go, whether there is any useful suspense, what sense it makes to reveal your interest in Lawrence's most boring banalities, how boringly he docks himself there, I find it remarkable how successfully the critics have taken up this jumble of letters, but basically it is understandable when you look at the literature of the last few decades. It is as if nothing has happened, as if only glossy brochures structured according to stylistic perfection are issued and imitated in tunnel vision cascades like stocks.
The high horse ends up at the slaughterhouse too, not just the sheep. Excursions are good for staying away from that. Pynchon knew what he was doing for a long time. But Dyver is far from that, as he is from any real empathy. Rating: Useless but nice.
The fact that I laugh out loud so often just shows that my most primitive mediocrity and most interpersonal emptiness has found its mirror neurons. What, please, and where, please, is English literature, if one assumes that top quality is being delivered here.
Once the new ones are old, it will become clear what rubbish was delivered from 1970 to 2010. And because people want to read, they accept it. But where is the truth, the power? I read Miller with Plexus at the same time.
Where is a Miller buried in all that rubbish? The ironed-out authors in their prize-filled puffs, if a Charlotte Roche seems more authentic to me than a Tom Wolf, then that says nothing about my preferences but about the worthlessness of an entire generation of writers in between, I'm really struggling to get out of this and remember why I threw away everything I had written twenty or thirty years ago, because I could already see then that these shabby idle nomads would worship average and nothing innovative has happened since Bourrough's Cut Ups.
And the fact that the Internet exists is something that some of its owners, i.e. publishers, would prefer to prevent and are now continuing to tamper with in a criminally stupid way.
You can only be as good as your publisher or gallery owner; the demise of the middleman trade is finally in sight, at least in the long term.
The success and (in terms of the art of writing) downfall of Stephen King proved me right, what I am now intoxicated by is that something real is happening that you want to be a part of, I think that is also possible in literature. Literature is actually more useless than other arts and should disappear with representational painting to the gulag of the blabla.
I like to parody, I myself only fit in between, but that is my advantage, I don't need this Sahara of thought, this garden of small ghostly herbs, which after being and having stood still, after Camus only drank, which still likes Faust today because there was no other Faust, because nobody seems to dare to do anything that goes beyond The Witcher, no wonder that two thousand years later we still have to love Aristotle, because not a hundred people after him have had anything intelligent to say. Forgetting your own insignificance in publishing, I praise journalism for that.
He has to report, even if he often fails in doing so, becoming faceless due to opinion phobia.
Because this low point of all art takes place in the freest society of all time!!!!
But what could be worse than an English almost author and almost humorist immortalizing another almost English author in a book not written in Italy? I'm glad that the nineties brought out computer games that distracted me from the thin mush that would have remained after I had read everything important.
Out of sheer anger, I should just be a writer.
I can understand that. But it's not interesting to run around angry and I'm disgusted by aggressive people everywhere. And neurotics are just annoying. Aggressively driven neurotics are the worst of all. I'd rather write myself raw on tarot cards, on new interpretations, I'd rather go outside and give birth than try to find tree pesticides from a threadbare cloth.
A pond of scholars without splendor creates no wonder and no values.
And please stop apologizing to me.
Let us apologize for being an artist, a writer, an author. That has to burn and explode again. It can't be an Apollonian two o'clock tea with mom and dad that we mock in whispers while counting the stolen meal vouchers.
Beauty in works, okay, that is a true path, that is a talent in itself, but all other art should rub and crash, be cheerful and not head for that whore haven, warbling this please, what may I do into the gutter, real, strong authenticity does not need an eternal party, that would be a misunderstanding, but it should find instead of administer, demand instead of subdue, knee-deep in the wallow of him who holds the feeding trough straight, culture needs fornication, not the bureaucrat's ball porn that degrades 8 out of 10 books to disgrace, pictures and films too, I just don't dare destroy any more in one article.
The secret ingredient of all things is to create something new, the phoenix legend, the green breaking through the asphalt. That will never change, and you don't have to give up the establishment and what usually marks the beginning, you just have to tear up contracts and live the will to power, to a power of joy instead of cowardice. The arrangement. We are opportunity, my darlings, we are flesh in the holy sense, we are seething, we are enjoying ourselves again, instead of dully decorating every day.
It is not a question of getting older, staying young, talent as a nuance, it is a question of what the few who still expose themselves to it have always emphasized: You must belong to the wildness, to pre-socialism, to mysticism, not to religion, to the law, to art as it wrongly defines itself.
Art Brut
I know that both exist, I only dare to hint at what I am actually striving for, I came back from the darkness because it makes sense, I know this whole shoe-shine circus, these expectorant emetics from technical understanding, this emaciated imagination, even in its most original genres it seems like a rain of fine dust, like a solar eclipse.
I don't go and talk to tree spirits for nothing and give a Pauli or Schrödinger more credit for artsy than all these twisted hope-bearers, I just want a good book.
One a day, that must be possible on a planet like this. It works with the series too. But please stop shouldering all this rubbish on my shoulders. If I write a book about a journalist who writes about Dyver like he writes about Lawcrence, I can throw Gödel at Escher. Give the arts section a suck? And in all this wine-loving bliss, haven't we gone too far, into affront?
Out of sheer anger you should go to war, not write books please decimate yourselves
Ritanlin discontinued. 26.8.2024 13.11
Leonardo da Vinci
