Behind the Scenes
“Have your own fun.”
Finally having got a hold of the beautiful latest issue of Fence, I was struck–[before being struck by the words of the pieces, as usual, and by their new colored layout on the page in this issue in a combo of blue/black/gray that I wish more publications would take on]–in reading Rebecca Wolff’s editor’s note. The note concerns itself mainly with an email that she received about an announcement for Brandon Downing’s brand new, and by and large tough to nail down, Lake Antiquity.
The emailer was bitching at Ms. Wolff for calling the book ‘indescribable’ and then simultaneously going on to try to describe it. The emailer apparently thought the book wasn’t as indescribable as she thought it was, and gave his take on how she should have described it. Bitching at her for being in awe of something, and not knowing exactly how to say why. She responds and then takes the consideration of the person’s email as a chance to open up the consideration of her editorial stance, which struck me as so right and crucial that I am going to copy the heart of it right here:
As a publisher, I often find myself in the position of ushering texts into the world that are, frankly, over my head in terms of their erudition or the richness of the literary-historical medium in which they grew–most of the poets I publish have read more than I have, and my appreciation of their work is made up of some combination of savvy (“this work is smart, and, in its position in the literary landscape, is something I feel comfortable being connected to”), curiosity (“I will learn something through the process of putting this book out in the world”), and whatever one calls the kind of literary/aesthetic appreciation that happens DESPITE or IN SPITE OF a kind of glancing or even glib awareness of the aforementioned richesses.
Thank god. A publisher of renown, with a backlog of amazing publications, who understands and can be plain about the idea that an editor, publisher, whoever, need not understand the full breadth or even the full context of the body of work they help bring into the light–beyond simply knowing that it is something of power, worth spreading. If there is anything that plagues the magazine and book publishing industry, it is too wide a margin of people denying that which they do not understand, or can encapsulate, and thereby disallowing themselves to be altered or even expanded by the work, in working harder at it, in letting it open up around them. Is this not what we read for? Is this not what we write for? Are books just another mode of entertainment, continuity, or are they meant to do something more?
This is why many magazines are dying. In something as often ephemeral as an issue of a magazine, why shouldn’t more chances be taken? In something as historically struck as publishing a book, why shouldn’t it be something that lives beyond its grasp? So many magazines and publishers fail financially because first they fail to enthrall, because their contents are bound in breadth enough that they are forced to compete for attention by things like movies, and often wheel around the elements that make text capable of approaching, creating space untouchable by another medium.
If only more editors would be more frank and open and willing to open the gates some, to smudge lines and make things that we can take beyond mere emotional responses and momentary pleasures, and instead create a body that more often interacts on the level of the unnamable, the waking, the eat. The day there are no objects left that we do not understand is the day we begin only ever getting smaller, dumber. Bodies in a stall.
>>>>>> Intuition over containment.
>>>>>>> Prowess over cake.
>>>>>>>>>>> Resonance over immediacy.
>>>>>>>>> ‘What the fuck’ over ‘Oh, neat.’
Pick up the new issue to read the thing in full, it’s worth the price alone, not to mention a ton of other magick words.
Bravo Rebecca. I want to have your kind of fun, too.
Tags: Fence, rebecca wolff
Yes.
I am tired of smallness.
Yes.
I am tired of smallness.
I want to comment on this by relating something that happened this semester. I am editing a lit mag with students and all decisions on content are theirs–I tried to remove myself from any pressures on what poetry and prose was selected.
For one exercise I gave them 10 or so poems to “argue” about, to theoretically pick for the magazine. They had no idea who wrote the poems, but one was a Simic poem, like this:
The stone is a mirror which works poorly. Nothing in it but dimness. Your dimness or its dimness, who’s to say? In the hush your heart sounds like a black cricket.
The students agreed they didn’t “understand” the poem, and this started a wide and urgent discussion. Around and around, they talked out the way this poem made their brains and blood and bile feel. Anyway, in the end, they “accepted” the poem (not really–this was an exercise) and I thought it really powerful how they got to that place, to accept the worth of NOT understanding, of a mysterious power, of words.
I found it one of the best days of class.
I want to comment on this by relating something that happened this semester. I am editing a lit mag with students and all decisions on content are theirs–I tried to remove myself from any pressures on what poetry and prose was selected.
For one exercise I gave them 10 or so poems to “argue” about, to theoretically pick for the magazine. They had no idea who wrote the poems, but one was a Simic poem, like this:
The stone is a mirror which works poorly. Nothing in it but dimness. Your dimness or its dimness, who’s to say? In the hush your heart sounds like a black cricket.
The students agreed they didn’t “understand” the poem, and this started a wide and urgent discussion. Around and around, they talked out the way this poem made their brains and blood and bile feel. Anyway, in the end, they “accepted” the poem (not really–this was an exercise) and I thought it really powerful how they got to that place, to accept the worth of NOT understanding, of a mysterious power, of words.
I found it one of the best days of class.
that is a great story
that is a great story
yes. greatest days as both an editor or reader when you come across something that chokeholds from something inexplicable and unfingerable. some inherent dynamism that bastes your insides. the best moments, really. “there are books i’ve enjoyed page by page without having any idea of what they were about.” – gary lutz
I love to hear things like this. It is really important, I think, to learn to appreciate things we don’t necessarily understand. I’ve been trying to open myself to this more in the past year. It is not easy.
yes. greatest days as both an editor or reader when you come across something that chokeholds from something inexplicable and unfingerable. some inherent dynamism that bastes your insides. the best moments, really. “there are books i’ve enjoyed page by page without having any idea of what they were about.” – gary lutz
I love to hear things like this. It is really important, I think, to learn to appreciate things we don’t necessarily understand. I’ve been trying to open myself to this more in the past year. It is not easy.
This is very cool. The best stuff always seems to transcend rational “understanding.” That comes later, maybe, and when and as it does it might make the emotional response larger, if the work is really good. But if the rational understanding overwhelms the visceral response, the piece dies — at least for me. I love that she says she publishes work that is “over [her] head.” Hopefully it stays there. If it’s good, I think it should. That doesn’t mean we can’t talk about work we love and begin to approach reasons why we think it’s so good or powerful or whatever. But something really good will stay over my head or out of my head or alongside my head forever.
This is very cool. The best stuff always seems to transcend rational “understanding.” That comes later, maybe, and when and as it does it might make the emotional response larger, if the work is really good. But if the rational understanding overwhelms the visceral response, the piece dies — at least for me. I love that she says she publishes work that is “over [her] head.” Hopefully it stays there. If it’s good, I think it should. That doesn’t mean we can’t talk about work we love and begin to approach reasons why we think it’s so good or powerful or whatever. But something really good will stay over my head or out of my head or alongside my head forever.
That’s a cool exercise, Sean.
That’s a cool exercise, Sean.
I am in accordance with the above. However, is there a limit to words that we do not or cannot understand? Is there a point where the writer can take advantage of the reader? I’m all about reading things I don’t understand, which is most of the time. But what (who?) is to stop the writer from putting up words that actually have nothing behind them…only words? How do we know when something is over our heads vs. not pointed our heads, let alone any selected body part?
I am in accordance with the above. However, is there a limit to words that we do not or cannot understand? Is there a point where the writer can take advantage of the reader? I’m all about reading things I don’t understand, which is most of the time. But what (who?) is to stop the writer from putting up words that actually have nothing behind them…only words? How do we know when something is over our heads vs. not pointed our heads, let alone any selected body part?
do words require pointing to make hit?
but no, you’re right, there is still the presence of obfuscation. again, i believe recognizing a text’s veracity comes down to savvy, presence, affect, light. a thing moves or does not move.
the importance, for an editor, is not naming it, but seeing that it is there.
the importance, for a writer, is writing the thing as it is meant to be.
do words require pointing to make hit?
but no, you’re right, there is still the presence of obfuscation. again, i believe recognizing a text’s veracity comes down to savvy, presence, affect, light. a thing moves or does not move.
the importance, for an editor, is not naming it, but seeing that it is there.
the importance, for a writer, is writing the thing as it is meant to be.
As readers, we always have the choice to walk away, and we will walk away if we’re not responding to the work on some level — viscerally first, for me, but also intellectually. Some combination of those two, going back and forth. I don’t think the writer can take advantage of the reader unless the reader wants to be taken advantage of. I can have a really strong response to a piece, and even articulate my response and some of the reasons for it, without completely understanding the work. Maybe it comes down to trusting your response as a reader, and not always feeling this need to explain either the response or the work at hand.
I really think my response to music or writing or dance or painting transcends the rational. The rational side is part of it or might become part of it, but there’s something bigger than that at work too, at least for me.
As readers, we always have the choice to walk away, and we will walk away if we’re not responding to the work on some level — viscerally first, for me, but also intellectually. Some combination of those two, going back and forth. I don’t think the writer can take advantage of the reader unless the reader wants to be taken advantage of. I can have a really strong response to a piece, and even articulate my response and some of the reasons for it, without completely understanding the work. Maybe it comes down to trusting your response as a reader, and not always feeling this need to explain either the response or the work at hand.
I really think my response to music or writing or dance or painting transcends the rational. The rational side is part of it or might become part of it, but there’s something bigger than that at work too, at least for me.
This is why Fence is so wonderful. I love the idea of editor as conduit. I love the idea of reading something that opens up bigger than me, that my brain can’t entirely contain. I love this post.
This is why Fence is so wonderful. I love the idea of editor as conduit. I love the idea of reading something that opens up bigger than me, that my brain can’t entirely contain. I love this post.
Thanks for making this post, Blake. Books are not movies. Nor are they paintings. They are not knots, but the knot’s undoing.
When books stop pretending to be anything other than books–well, that is when art begins.
Thanks for making this post, Blake. Books are not movies. Nor are they paintings. They are not knots, but the knot’s undoing.
When books stop pretending to be anything other than books–well, that is when art begins.
Damn that sounds stuffy. Didn’t mean to. Whatever.
Damn that sounds stuffy. Didn’t mean to. Whatever.
More than anything, I’m in love with all the many ways there are to love something.
More than anything, I’m in love with all the many ways there are to love something.
Damn that sounds cheesy. Kinda meant to.
Damn that sounds cheesy. Kinda meant to.
Sounds hot.
Sounds hot.
Not stuffy exactly
Paintings is books with color words
Not stuffy exactly
Paintings is books with color words
Books is awesome. I specially love comic books and books about guns.
Books is awesome. I specially love comic books and books about guns.
Why does rational understanding impede or prompt visceral response?
It seems like the most wildly emotional moments of my life happened when I was moved to ignore rationale.
Could syntax, sentiment, mood, image, and movement prompt a larger appreciation if “understanding” was a secondary consideration to both the writer and reader?
Do our emotions and rationale have to be a dialectic?
Why does rational understanding impede or prompt visceral response?
It seems like the most wildly emotional moments of my life happened when I was moved to ignore rationale.
Could syntax, sentiment, mood, image, and movement prompt a larger appreciation if “understanding” was a secondary consideration to both the writer and reader?
Do our emotions and rationale have to be a dialectic?
reminds me of years ago how I came to john hawkes. the cannibal. read 50 pages and barely knew what was happening. continued to the end and my head was spinning. I like a spinning head.
reminds me of years ago how I came to john hawkes. the cannibal. read 50 pages and barely knew what was happening. continued to the end and my head was spinning. I like a spinning head.
disagree, alec, respectfully.
yes, books are books, and lit issues in obvious ways are different from other media. but there is, for me, great explorative space… endless possibility in the transfer or trans-action of ideas, imagery, influence, inspiration, strategic methods, etc. across disciplines.
if artmaking/storytelling/innovation/evocation of _________ is the aim, then why not draw from any and all sources? lit that draws only on lit — and imagines itself as a codified “it,” real only through its reflection in the Lit mirror — runs the risk of insularity.
isn’t art, after all, the human spirit set free? why limit lit (both the to and the fro) to words on the page?
disagree, alec, respectfully.
yes, books are books, and lit issues in obvious ways are different from other media. but there is, for me, great explorative space… endless possibility in the transfer or trans-action of ideas, imagery, influence, inspiration, strategic methods, etc. across disciplines.
if artmaking/storytelling/innovation/evocation of _________ is the aim, then why not draw from any and all sources? lit that draws only on lit — and imagines itself as a codified “it,” real only through its reflection in the Lit mirror — runs the risk of insularity.
isn’t art, after all, the human spirit set free? why limit lit (both the to and the fro) to words on the page?
[…] reading: At HTML Giant, Blake Butler uses the most recent issue of Fence — in particular the editor’s note by […]
Well, yeah, I agree, very well-said, and I guess my comment was probably too aphoristic in content. Art is an open space, yeah, and an art that isolates itself is not doing its job, and in fact operates in very risky territory–in a negative sense.
But I think that the presence of, say, film or pictorial art in a work of literature is localized. In the same way Blake talks about the presence of Deleuze in his forthcoming book on insomnia. I have to go get a haircut right now–my mom is yelling–or I’d expound.
Well, yeah, I agree, very well-said, and I guess my comment was probably too aphoristic in content. Art is an open space, yeah, and an art that isolates itself is not doing its job, and in fact operates in very risky territory–in a negative sense.
But I think that the presence of, say, film or pictorial art in a work of literature is localized. In the same way Blake talks about the presence of Deleuze in his forthcoming book on insomnia. I have to go get a haircut right now–my mom is yelling–or I’d expound.
nice, alec. especially the ending. too funny.
funnier still, when you first mentioned blake, I thought you meant william blake, who, you’ll require, often did this thing w/ words AND visual art, which he then presented elaborately via engravings. I’d call this multimedia, and I’d argue the composite is more powerful than either medium alone.
nice, alec. especially the ending. too funny.
funnier still, when you first mentioned blake, I thought you meant william blake, who, you’ll require, often did this thing w/ words AND visual art, which he then presented elaborately via engravings. I’d call this multimedia, and I’d argue the composite is more powerful than either medium alone.
I edited two issues of Ripe magazine in Vancouver, a photography/fiction magazine. It wasn’t easy. The other editor I worked with on the fiction side was great, but the publisher and photo editor were not. In the by and by, I discovered something about how a story makes it into a magazine, and the tumult and riposte that it required, just to get something above water. My choices tended toward formal difficulty and interest in language ahead of narrative coherence or plain story-telling, but I wasn’t completely prejudiced, I wanted to seek a balance between the visual elements and the stories, and the stories contrasted against one another. It didn’t matter. The magazine folded, I became the manager of a crap book packager. Now I read things for friends, but I have no power of publication. I am glad. The experience taught me a lot about the value of publication, I haven’t submitted anything of my own since. Fence is great, Rebecca Wolff clearly understands what she’s doing, but being so embattled sucks. Rejection, fostering talent, explaining your choices over and over, leaves much to be desired, and in the end, the dead magazine, or the live one, have tantamount to the same value overall, inasmuch as the “competition” is the New Yorker or Jersey Shore. It really behooves the editor, then, to make some noise. But over and over, not so much. Tender renditions of assimilation, careful explanatory texts on loss or timid sex, weepy reading, all get put forth ahead of wild writing, because a) the readers are few and far between so you seek a middle ground and b) look what you have to deal with in order to found something ambitious. Some editors hunt, others gather. The former strikes me as the way forward. ‘Understanding’ is not quarry, though. If I was an editor, I’d hunt for the many-sided question, or the thing made into being that has no recognition, that changes the air where I am. If I “got it”, I’d leave it in the maybe pile.
I edited two issues of Ripe magazine in Vancouver, a photography/fiction magazine. It wasn’t easy. The other editor I worked with on the fiction side was great, but the publisher and photo editor were not. In the by and by, I discovered something about how a story makes it into a magazine, and the tumult and riposte that it required, just to get something above water. My choices tended toward formal difficulty and interest in language ahead of narrative coherence or plain story-telling, but I wasn’t completely prejudiced, I wanted to seek a balance between the visual elements and the stories, and the stories contrasted against one another. It didn’t matter. The magazine folded, I became the manager of a crap book packager. Now I read things for friends, but I have no power of publication. I am glad. The experience taught me a lot about the value of publication, I haven’t submitted anything of my own since. Fence is great, Rebecca Wolff clearly understands what she’s doing, but being so embattled sucks. Rejection, fostering talent, explaining your choices over and over, leaves much to be desired, and in the end, the dead magazine, or the live one, have tantamount to the same value overall, inasmuch as the “competition” is the New Yorker or Jersey Shore. It really behooves the editor, then, to make some noise. But over and over, not so much. Tender renditions of assimilation, careful explanatory texts on loss or timid sex, weepy reading, all get put forth ahead of wild writing, because a) the readers are few and far between so you seek a middle ground and b) look what you have to deal with in order to found something ambitious. Some editors hunt, others gather. The former strikes me as the way forward. ‘Understanding’ is not quarry, though. If I was an editor, I’d hunt for the many-sided question, or the thing made into being that has no recognition, that changes the air where I am. If I “got it”, I’d leave it in the maybe pile.
Great post. As someone who edited journals for a loooong time, I wish I had those words on the tips of my tongue, especially when turning work down that didn’t connect with me on any level.
When turning work down that I thought were of some sort of merit–and this happened a lot, more than I think I’d like to mention–I would try to suggest other places to send their work. Sometimes this got the reaction I’d intended; other times, not so much.
Great post. As someone who edited journals for a loooong time, I wish I had those words on the tips of my tongue, especially when turning work down that didn’t connect with me on any level.
When turning work down that I thought were of some sort of merit–and this happened a lot, more than I think I’d like to mention–I would try to suggest other places to send their work. Sometimes this got the reaction I’d intended; other times, not so much.
Fence is still around? I thought I heard something happened to it.
Fence is still around? I thought I heard something happened to it.
[…] reading: At HTML Giant, Blake Butler uses the most recent issue of Fence — in particular the editor’s note by […]
I’d bang it.
I’d bang it.
good example. on a contemporary level, broadsides seek to do the same thing, and though i’ve seen a lot of crappy broadsides, i’ve also seen a lot of amazing ones that really add something to the literary content. i received a couple coinsides from Brave Men Press from my HTML Giant secret santa, and i’ve to say they’re a great example of visual and textual complimenting.
good example. on a contemporary level, broadsides seek to do the same thing, and though i’ve seen a lot of crappy broadsides, i’ve also seen a lot of amazing ones that really add something to the literary content. i received a couple coinsides from Brave Men Press from my HTML Giant secret santa, and i’ve to say they’re a great example of visual and textual complimenting.
same here, roxane. it can be a damn humbling process, to say the least.
same here, roxane. it can be a damn humbling process, to say the least.
Jesus, totally. But I think the composite takes many forms–the labyrinth of, say (not to beat, erm, a horse), Infinite Jest I would consider a multimedia experience.
And yeah, ce, another really great broadside is THE2NDHAND. They don’t get nearly the recognition they deserve.
Jesus, totally. But I think the composite takes many forms–the labyrinth of, say (not to beat, erm, a horse), Infinite Jest I would consider a multimedia experience.
And yeah, ce, another really great broadside is THE2NDHAND. They don’t get nearly the recognition they deserve.
That’s a wonderfully refreshing comment by Rebecca Wolff.
Actually, I’m convinced that any poet who will end up mattering has (needs to have) feelings very much along those lines.
But one must never say so, of course.
That’s a wonderfully refreshing comment by Rebecca Wolff.
Actually, I’m convinced that any poet who will end up mattering has (needs to have) feelings very much along those lines.
But one must never say so, of course.
Not that having those feelings is any guarantee…
Not that having those feelings is any guarantee…
I’m late to this party, but wanted to assert a virtual high five to Rebecca Wolff. yes, yes, yes. Difficulty is good. Indescribability should always be the goal. Thanks for this post, Blake.
I’m late to this party, but wanted to assert a virtual high five to Rebecca Wolff. yes, yes, yes. Difficulty is good. Indescribability should always be the goal. Thanks for this post, Blake.
sure, alec. I’ll give you infinite jest as a RARE words-on-the-page multimedia experience, maybe.
whatever form the tune takes, I think it’s important to point out, in response to other posts I’ve been reading here lately (and JW’s just below) that narrative coherence in fiction matters.
re: DFW, despite his restless invention, he also fundamentally told stories and explored human themes with live-seeming characters, emotions, confusion, confliction… AND he used narrative constructs to convey these things, no?
yes, language — word, phrase, sentence, sound — matters as well. but w/out attention to narrative clarity — often significantly including a voice (p.o.v.) that is not necessarily that of the “author” — then we’re talking poetry or a solipsistic something else, not fiction.
not to waste space churning definitions of poetry v. fiction v. prose poems v. flash v. short stories v. novella v. novel (not to mention all the so-called genre distinctions) etc. — but fiction, or let’s say, NOVELS (and not the exploded silliness sean lovelace and others, myself included, were cracking on the other day) but NOVELS (you know what they are) must have a considerable level of narrative coherence, arc, thrust, collusion, i.e., something that is credible, tangible, comprehensible. arguments for incomprehensibility (or deliberate obfuscation, which could be seen as fear of truthtelling in the writer) as the hallmark of literary worth seem way off the mark to me, just as “small,” mike meginnis, as the latest vampire romance.
doesn’t bigness lie in truth, clarity of vision, execution? there are infinite ways to take literary risks. vonnegut said, “give readers as much information as possible as soon as possible…. readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why…” I don’t agree with this advice 100%, but I’m all for clarity… of intention and action.
finally, a moldy-oldie, perhaps, but one that still merits consideration: who are we writing for? ourselves or our colleagues alone, or real people with real lives who read books for pleasure, brain-tweakage and the offchance of revelation?
sure, alec. I’ll give you infinite jest as a RARE words-on-the-page multimedia experience, maybe.
whatever form the tune takes, I think it’s important to point out, in response to other posts I’ve been reading here lately (and JW’s just below) that narrative coherence in fiction matters.
re: DFW, despite his restless invention, he also fundamentally told stories and explored human themes with live-seeming characters, emotions, confusion, confliction… AND he used narrative constructs to convey these things, no?
yes, language — word, phrase, sentence, sound — matters as well. but w/out attention to narrative clarity — often significantly including a voice (p.o.v.) that is not necessarily that of the “author” — then we’re talking poetry or a solipsistic something else, not fiction.
not to waste space churning definitions of poetry v. fiction v. prose poems v. flash v. short stories v. novella v. novel (not to mention all the so-called genre distinctions) etc. — but fiction, or let’s say, NOVELS (and not the exploded silliness sean lovelace and others, myself included, were cracking on the other day) but NOVELS (you know what they are) must have a considerable level of narrative coherence, arc, thrust, collusion, i.e., something that is credible, tangible, comprehensible. arguments for incomprehensibility (or deliberate obfuscation, which could be seen as fear of truthtelling in the writer) as the hallmark of literary worth seem way off the mark to me, just as “small,” mike meginnis, as the latest vampire romance.
doesn’t bigness lie in truth, clarity of vision, execution? there are infinite ways to take literary risks. vonnegut said, “give readers as much information as possible as soon as possible…. readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why…” I don’t agree with this advice 100%, but I’m all for clarity… of intention and action.
finally, a moldy-oldie, perhaps, but one that still merits consideration: who are we writing for? ourselves or our colleagues alone, or real people with real lives who read books for pleasure, brain-tweakage and the offchance of revelation?
lastly (really this time), I have no problem with indescribability, and I appreciate rebecca wolff and blake (butler)’s words on this. however, I respectfully submit:
>>>>>> narrative containment doesn’t need to toss intuitive interplay off the bus.
>>>>>>>>>> multilayered cake trumps a flexing baker.
>>>>> there can be resonance in immediacy (or in the accumulation of immediacies).
>>>>>> ‘What the fuck?’ over ‘Oh, neat,’ yes. ‘What the fuck?… THAT was fucking neat!’ is best.
lastly (really this time), I have no problem with indescribability, and I appreciate rebecca wolff and blake (butler)’s words on this. however, I respectfully submit:
>>>>>> narrative containment doesn’t need to toss intuitive interplay off the bus.
>>>>>>>>>> multilayered cake trumps a flexing baker.
>>>>> there can be resonance in immediacy (or in the accumulation of immediacies).
>>>>>> ‘What the fuck?’ over ‘Oh, neat,’ yes. ‘What the fuck?… THAT was fucking neat!’ is best.
he wrote “the eat”.
he wrote “the eat”.
true that jesus. but the word ‘over’ doesn’t mean ‘should be replaced by’. simply tendencies that lead the way. certainly all those latter qualifiers have a place too, as you’ve pointed out, but can lead, for me, if not altered by the former qualifiers, to a stink
of course, in the end, no rules rule
true that jesus. but the word ‘over’ doesn’t mean ‘should be replaced by’. simply tendencies that lead the way. certainly all those latter qualifiers have a place too, as you’ve pointed out, but can lead, for me, if not altered by the former qualifiers, to a stink
of course, in the end, no rules rule
ja. no stink. no rules rule.
ja. no stink. no rules rule.
The limits to our own comprehension are inspiring, and oddly comforting. I’m not entirely sure, but I wonder if perhaps this is because, as Karen Armstrong has argued, “the human mind is able to have ideas and experiences that exceed our conceptual grasp. We constantly push our thoughts to an extreme, so that our minds seem to elide naturally into an apprehension of transcendence.”
The British critic George Steiner seems appropriate here, who said: “It is decisively the fact that language does have frontiers, that gives proof of a transcendent presence in the fabric of the world. It is just because we can go no further, because speech so marvelously fails us, that we experience the certitude of a divine meaning surpassing and enfolding ours ….”
That sounds rather too “religious” for this discussion, but it seems to explain somewhat why we are so drawn to that which exceeds our grasp in literature.
The limits to our own comprehension are inspiring, and oddly comforting. I’m not entirely sure, but I wonder if perhaps this is because, as Karen Armstrong has argued, “the human mind is able to have ideas and experiences that exceed our conceptual grasp. We constantly push our thoughts to an extreme, so that our minds seem to elide naturally into an apprehension of transcendence.”
The British critic George Steiner seems appropriate here, who said: “It is decisively the fact that language does have frontiers, that gives proof of a transcendent presence in the fabric of the world. It is just because we can go no further, because speech so marvelously fails us, that we experience the certitude of a divine meaning surpassing and enfolding ours ….”
That sounds rather too “religious” for this discussion, but it seems to explain somewhat why we are so drawn to that which exceeds our grasp in literature.