Dingo the Dissident

THE BLOG OF DISQUIET : Qweir Notions in the Armpit of Diogenes by DINGO the DISSIDENT binge-thinker since February 2008.
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Saturday, 16 June 2012

'Bloomsday' Blog.


THERE'S NO WAY I COULD WRITE A NON-EPISTOLARY NOVEL
SO I'M EXPERIMENTING WITH A SHORT STOrSAYoEM INSTEAD

1. Given that I think language is an environmental disaster,
why, by the cheese of Jesus' ripped-off foreskin,
am I writing
what almost nobody is reading ?
And who cares ?

And - to continue the thoughtline - why are there dozens of great (I use the word advisedly) novelists writing in English, mainly female, mainly in the dispiriting British Isles - and almost no poets ? 
Is it just that the Greekless Captains of Capitalism have Decided that we All Must Live In Prose ?

Probably.

2. Early Closing Day in bleak Belfast was Wednesday.
It was Thursday in dirty Dublin, when a man in a
ridiculously famous novel written mainly for
the AcLitRacket,
boringly perambulated that unfriendly
cock-unfriendly, unmuscled city.
(But of course all cities are unfriendly,
that's why they were put there.)

I have read hgundreds if not thoqusands of novels
in my time (though not Uliss\z, which is only
for committed noah-all heterosexuals) and
duller than Dreyfus or Proust.  It seems to me
that those who overprays Joys ludicrously
underprèz Gorki, Hašek, Kafka, Hamsun, Cervantes,
Zola, Chekov, and, indeed 'Flann O'Brien'  (just to skim the
rich scum of the surface).

Forgive the typos.
The more I read, the more I come to think
that language is what separates us from reality,
has horribly turned us into inescapable fiction...
Perhaps the more typos the better.

Maybe it's because of this awareness
that I would no more dream of trying to write a novel
than of flying to Saturn (lovely rings)...or is it
a defishency in my Theory of Mond that disables me
from imagining even the shortest, simplest dialogue ?

I understand how peeple might FEEL, but
haven't a clue what they might say
In Any Given Circumsdectomy.

Surely it is not because of J.J. that we are living
in the skincankered Golden Age of the Novel
in (that percussive car-manual language) English ?

And what if Gé-Gé had written in quasi
-earthy Irish...or Slovenitalian,
and the similarly over-rated WS in Danish
or Glaswegian ?

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