The Bourdieuvian posture - I've come to think of it as the
Who-Are-You-Going-to-Believe,-Me-Or-Your-Lying-Eyes? school of criticism - may be as much an infection as a diagnosis. It seems to have invaded, unexamined, online discourse about books, movies, music, and art.
The life of an artist is all about flinging yourself into the world, the muck and annoyance and pleasure of it, and then pulling yourself out, to make art.
Standing in the US, where NEA studies claim that just over half of the population has pretty much stopped reading entirely, the Chinese government’s concern over the printed word seems slightly anachronistic
I found myself reaching for the students (in my mind) as they piled into the elevator while I stayed behind to gather my things; I thought, hey, wait, we were just getting started.
For the kind of person who prefers to adjust to the swimming pool by inches rather than jumping straight into the deep end, the massive 2666 may have felt a lot like drowning.
I’ve been working the last two years on my first novel, which has certain elements of autobiography to it, and in that time I can’t help but notice a certain decline in the indicators of good mental health.
My life is running away from me, and I can’t keep up. Maybe you can relate. I’m starting to wonder if humanity is divided between those who thrive on speed and those who are pummeled by it.
When my technology fails, the lack of it consumes me. When someone else’s technology fails them, I am vaguely sympathetic, but I’m losing my ability to feel anything in response.
Sometimes I feel like everyone's eating this thing called scrambled eggs (What are those, I wonder. They look good.), while I'm enjoying a delicious chantarelle and pecorino frittata.