Saturday, March 22, 2014

That Look

Emily Blunt in THE WOLFMAN (2010)

“Words are only painted fire, a look is the fire itself. She gave that look, and carried it away to the treasury of heaven, where all things that are divine belong.”

― Mark TwainA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court

Monday, March 17, 2014

The thought is in the mix

"Whoever looks for the writer’s thinking in the words and thoughts of his characters is looking in the wrong direction. Seeking out a writer’s “thoughts” violates the richness of the mixture that is the very hallmark of the novel. The thought of the novelist that matters most is the thought that makes him a novelist.

"The thought of the novelist lies not in the remarks of his characters or even in their introspection but in the plight he has invented for his characters, in the juxtaposition of those characters and in the lifelike ramifications of the ensemble they make — their density, their substantiality, their lived existence actualized in all its nuanced particulars, is in fact his thought metabolized.

"The thought of the writer lies in his choice of an aspect of reality previously unexamined in the way that he conducts an examination. The thought of the writer is embedded everywhere in the course of the novel’s action. The thought of the writer is figured invisibly in the elaborate pattern — in the newly emerging constellation of imagined things — that is the architecture of the book: what Aristotle called simply “the arrangement of the parts,” the “matter of size and order.” The thought of the novel is embodied in the moral focus of the novel. The tool with which the novelist thinks is the scrupulosity of his style. Here, in all this, lies whatever magnitude his thought may have 

"The novel, then, is in itself his mental world. A novelist is not a tiny cog in the great wheel of human thought. He is a tiny cog in the great wheel of imaginative literature. Finis."

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Zeteticism Skepticism

Whatever savants say,
the world is flat, not round;
the ships that crowd the bay
are for its limit bound.
Their cargoes likewise, all
consigned to one address,
at the world’s waterfall
plunge into nothingness.
The brightwork, the white sails
unfurled against the sky,
the million knots and nails
for such a voyage, why?