Count the present days until today arrives (FAY)
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(''It has nothing to do with the government, but with history,'' I said --- my publishing experience in New York, from 2016 until today, had earned me a kind of amateurish nymphescence entirely conducive to the red pimpin' of books of espionage and international intrigue, and also to the measured pedantry of a language destined to collect the FEAR OF THE WORLD not in mere characters, but in the discourses of a TRAGIC FUNCTION capable of making all the new languages of the conflicting century converge towards a single CENTER OPEN TO SIGNIFICANCE --- meditating and devising plans and schemes of ever simpler gratification for part-time hitmen, I felt I could bring the very being of literature to the availability of any and all paroxysms, the honey of its blood-stained poetic spasm shaking the meaning of the world with indirect and subliminal interrogations and surgical crimes floating between me and the literary works of spies that I edited and published and distributed --- the work, the world, the time consumed by this or that work that came to me pregnant with secrets and bad omens in a round silence of immobilization of a target on the radar, undulating to a certain group of readers, not only in New York, but also in electorally sensitive or economically central states; certain hidden nerves meticulously exposed vibrated at the slightest pressure from reading eyes until they became free thought-forms like succubi traveling far and telepathically through the air, duly introjected to the point of resembling Krause's corpuscles in the phase of accelerated agitation, asking for the enjoyment of an unrestricted movement of contagion --- the mind surpassing life like someone who spoke and laughed in their sleep and, in the void of an oscillating sense, the fatal duplicity of the writer, who always questions while pretending to affirm, was still revealed as a pre-natural and metaphysical "LISTENING" --- for example: while the blonde (Tereza) dozed on the sofa, still with the Antonina-Manuscript on her lap, under her arms, someone was magically already reading, in Port Allen, Louisiana, an advertisement for Bard's next book, published by our Les Fréres Books, in an "experimental" manner --- Toby, once again relentless at the wheel, crossing the river of Kerouac's Myth of the Rainy Dawn on a torrential highway covered in our spectrum of commercial distribution --- Bard, on the other hand, was writhing on the sofa next to Tereza and Natasha, head thrown back, teeth biting his damp lower lip, switching the cigarette he was lighting from one hand to the other; suddenly, he said: "The anxiety that all this provokes in me compels me to work now, as quickly as possible, in a perspective of exquisitely modulated delights, devouring Antonina's memories and 'narrative' my own intrigue through its juice" --- Tereza, two long, sun-tanned legs, impartial sympathy and fierce eyes, in a kind of operational continuation that already seemed a mere parody of that tropical world left behind forever, amid erotic lucubrations and tight personal calculations of money and the future --- we knew Tereza well, she had a life of her own that she wouldn't give up ---
--- ''The epic commandment of pure objectuality, according to Adorno, was undermined in Western literature after Proust, Joyce and Kafka; according to him: ''Whoever today immersed themselves in the objectivity of things past, present or future and took effect from the plenitude and plasticity of what is contemplated and welcomed with 'humility', would be forced into the gesture of artisanal imitation. "You would feel guilty for the lie of giving yourself over to the world with a love that assumes the world actually has some meaning when its nonsense has been notorious for decades, and you would end up in the unbearable kitsch of localist art," I said, conceiving in the translucent mystery of the room the monotonous noise of New York traffic outside the window, inconstant and grumpy below --- it was Sunday, and Bard didn't seem entirely willing to discuss literary theory without drinking heavily first --- "The novel's rebellion against standard realism is rather the rebellion against the psychic colonization of discursive language (it is perhaps a desperate appeal to TELEPATHY, to ORPHIC ARCHONTISM, to TANTRIC SHAKTISM and to VAJRAYANA MEDITATION --- I said), against the reduction of articulate and continuous life in itself to a stock market trick called "tireless reproduction of the common".....................
ResponderExcluir.............................
ResponderExcluir.. To narrate something means to HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY, and precisely this is impeded in the administered world by the standardization and sameness without which capital cannot reproduce itself unproductively and parasitically... It is not only the fact that information and science have confiscated everything positive and apprehensible (including the facticity of the world) that forces the novel to break with this and surrender itself to the representation of essence and distortion, but also the circumstance that the more closed and gapless the surface of the social process of life is composed, the more hermetically hidden, like a veil, is the BEING, in the sense that the realism that reproduces the facade is merely literary lubricant that keeps the social machinery of objectifying alienation, the anthropological machine that runs in vain. It is necessary to recognize, before writing anything, the illusory nature of language, the unreality of illusion, and to restore to art the immemorial spirit of PARODY; the naiveté of non-naiveté, far from representing appearance as something true. Kafka, for example, seems to take away all peace of mind from the reader (in this regard) by suppressing the distance of contemplative reading through convoluted shocks that are a complete mockery of the permanent threat of catastrophe......................
.................There are no disinterested observations; everything is desperately playing for its own life, like a cornered animal, and every word intended to represent a fact always seems to be apologizing for having been born. Adorno continues: "There is no modern work that serves any purpose and that does not also find its satisfaction in dissonance and disconnection. To the extent that these works embody, without compromise, precisely THE HORROR, and refer all the happiness of contemplation to the purity of such expression, they serve freedom, which is only indicated in the lesser productions, because they do not show what bad happened to the individual in the bourgeois, conservative and ultra-liberal era --- a beginning of conversation, only, to try to get to the difficult and unacceptable question, in the center of the luminous web serenely waiting for the idea to reach that incredible Bard dying to do and be --- rest, secret, pause and error --- the indigestible, invisible and worrying point where the idea of the power of the PLAN was hidden --- expected nothing less than an attack of madness, on Bard's part, that is why it was necessary for him to drink and, trapped in that web of ethereal and distressing jokes that we were,
ResponderExcluirfelt that the generous final slice of life's cake we had reserved for him wasn't exactly the embodiment of his former lust as a book author, that tender, dreamy childishness that drives us to write whatever it is, and that combined with a strange vulgarity plunges us into literary ambition as if in a game of greasy poles. Closing my eyes, I could SEE a frozen fraction of Bard's soul groan in pain as I spoke: "Actually, I want to be blunt about THIS! We wish to keep him away from writing, to ensure an entrée into the world of global literary fame with a modicum of dignity. Among us there is a ghostly agent, a ghostwriter named K, who will be in charge of writing, with complete freedom and autonomy, at least your next three or even five books." There was an unnerving silence in the room after I said that. Tereza asked, offhand:
ResponderExcluir
ResponderExcluir"Does excessive milkshake consumption cause pimples?" --- then, I don't know, what agony that kind of invisible flame extinguished above Bard's head, the vacuum of my initiation ritual sucking up every detail of his reactions, there motionless on the sofa, surrounded by two women as beautiful as they were devoid of a sense of humor, as indifferent to his reaction as a cellophane wrapper, while I felt frustrations instantly forming inside him that were very unappealing to the PLAN --- he inspected me silently through a toxic fog of absolute repugnance)