There's More Where That Came From
My posit was wrong! Again! Hooray!
A continuation of the previous post:
But I like girls I can talk to. I love bodies, make no mistake, but I like there to be a Soul inside. She must have heard the word ‘literature’ before I’ll find out if she’s heard the word ‘cunnilingus’. Hee-hee!
Well, I’m simply being honest.
And that’s one thing that all books must have before you can call them great. Honesty. The author must be willing to look beneath surfaces, even their very own, and show us what goes on there, and wonder why. And when we wonder why, too, and can see the manner in which fellow humans have dealt with existence and their specific situations in the complex, somewhat tatty web of life, then that, to me, is when a book is doing its job. The writer must milk the Earth for truths. Writers are no less helpful than scientists; we are simply mathematicians of the heart. Of feeling. Sometimes we, like the scientists, don’t know the right answer.
The best things in life are always ultimately free. I mean, you can possess a tangerine-coloured Peugeot but if you cannot be content, or are anally retentive, then you do not possess as good a version of the experience as you could. A poor man can look at a lump of resin he owns of interesting shape that he found out in the country one January and really see lightness and gentleness glistening off of it and feel pretty content, even though he is poor. We cannot, perhaps, choose the life we lead but how we choose to experience our life is ultimately up to each of us to decide for ourselves, I posit. A character in literature – dare I say, the character of a good book itself – and I don’t mean The Good Book, The Bible, which is actually kind of a bad book in that it is authorativley declared by some as a work of non-fiction to lure people to their knees – can exemplify this sort of possibly helpful philosophizing.
So, yes, I suppose I philosophize a bit. I suppose that any good writer does. I have my head in the clouds sometimes and I suppose that’s why I’m not concerned with fashion. The clothes I wear are the ones I largely have chosen, rather than those which others have chosen for me via billboards and videoclips. But, er, um, you know, reliable threads are a good thing to have. They stop one being arrested for indecent exposure. And what, by the way, is with those couples in movies who have obviously just fucked a blue streak (it is legal to have intercourse with a blue streak in certain states of the union, incidentally, mainly the sexual union), what is with them, I ponder, that the woman must cover her titties when they are both sitting up in bed, talking? (The humans, that is.) What girl does that, unless it’s in a really cold woodshed or some such place? And I don’t know about you but I haven’t ever done much fucking in woodsheds during Winter.
My writing is my ultimate mistress, said the writer. I think that’s about right, too.
A continuation of the previous post:
But I like girls I can talk to. I love bodies, make no mistake, but I like there to be a Soul inside. She must have heard the word ‘literature’ before I’ll find out if she’s heard the word ‘cunnilingus’. Hee-hee!
Well, I’m simply being honest.
And that’s one thing that all books must have before you can call them great. Honesty. The author must be willing to look beneath surfaces, even their very own, and show us what goes on there, and wonder why. And when we wonder why, too, and can see the manner in which fellow humans have dealt with existence and their specific situations in the complex, somewhat tatty web of life, then that, to me, is when a book is doing its job. The writer must milk the Earth for truths. Writers are no less helpful than scientists; we are simply mathematicians of the heart. Of feeling. Sometimes we, like the scientists, don’t know the right answer.
The best things in life are always ultimately free. I mean, you can possess a tangerine-coloured Peugeot but if you cannot be content, or are anally retentive, then you do not possess as good a version of the experience as you could. A poor man can look at a lump of resin he owns of interesting shape that he found out in the country one January and really see lightness and gentleness glistening off of it and feel pretty content, even though he is poor. We cannot, perhaps, choose the life we lead but how we choose to experience our life is ultimately up to each of us to decide for ourselves, I posit. A character in literature – dare I say, the character of a good book itself – and I don’t mean The Good Book, The Bible, which is actually kind of a bad book in that it is authorativley declared by some as a work of non-fiction to lure people to their knees – can exemplify this sort of possibly helpful philosophizing.
So, yes, I suppose I philosophize a bit. I suppose that any good writer does. I have my head in the clouds sometimes and I suppose that’s why I’m not concerned with fashion. The clothes I wear are the ones I largely have chosen, rather than those which others have chosen for me via billboards and videoclips. But, er, um, you know, reliable threads are a good thing to have. They stop one being arrested for indecent exposure. And what, by the way, is with those couples in movies who have obviously just fucked a blue streak (it is legal to have intercourse with a blue streak in certain states of the union, incidentally, mainly the sexual union), what is with them, I ponder, that the woman must cover her titties when they are both sitting up in bed, talking? (The humans, that is.) What girl does that, unless it’s in a really cold woodshed or some such place? And I don’t know about you but I haven’t ever done much fucking in woodsheds during Winter.
My writing is my ultimate mistress, said the writer. I think that’s about right, too.
posted by S. Gregory | 10:54 pm
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