Alternatively: Someone out there right now is in need of a shirt that says “I sent a rude anon on Tumblr and all I got was this essay on the place The Death of The Author in modern discourse instead.”
Yesterday I finally finished How to Read Literature Like a Professor by Thomas C. Foster, which I got for either Christmas or my birthday (they’re relatively close together so it’s hard to remember which). While I did find it overall enjoyable and educational, it raised again the issue I have with “Death of the Author” that has now been actively plaguing me for the past 27 hours.
Continue reading Some Idiot Sent Me a Stupid Message and I Didn’t Want to Deal With It so I Did This Instead
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all starts to disappear or die, I Should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Comforting nihilism. That’s my brand. Life is meaningless and that’s what keeps me living it.
Continue reading On Existential Comfort
ANTIGONE: The fields were wet. They were waiting for something to happen. The whole world was breathless, waiting. I can’t tell you what a roaring noise I seemed to make alone on the road. It bothered me that whatever was waiting, wasn’t waiting for me.
— Antigone, Jean Anouilh (trans. Lewis Galantiere)
This exists in the in-between grey space where I’m not sure whether it’s still Sunday, because I’m still awake, or Monday, because that’s what the clock says. For all I know it could be Tuesday; I feel like I’ve been awake that long. Is it Wednesday yet? I’ll get back to you on that, hopefully.
In other news, it is much too late for critical thought. I’ll see you in the morning for something equally inane and incomprehensible but without the excuse.