| On the perils of Dostoyevsky... |
[Jun. 24th, 2009|05:47 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  crazy | ] |
80 pages into The Idiot (of of my top 3, definitely) and I have chanced upon a charming little notion: Dostoyevsky makes me dangerous. His brand of passion is addictive, undiluted and anti-real. It actually provokes a very strong, passionate response in me, be that anger, pity, love, or whatever else. (Actually the strength of the emotions he deals in means that they are fairly few in number, love is LOVE, hate is HATE, there are few half-measures). When did literature incite us to a real, physical response to the world around us? Have I forgotten to feel under the influence of anything but the strongest of emotions, the Dostoyevskian emotions?
Maybe I'll punch a wall even. Or roar. Probably not. But how is it that most writers are so timid? So tied to realism? By stretching realism, by enlarging and making it grotesque, Dostoyevsky achieves a power that few can. A power that makes you think you could go out into the world and do something a bit different, out of your usual groove. Realism did nothing for the real.
Did it then make it more helpless? More enshrined in its static, everyday ways? Let us regress, back to revolutionary lit! Back to shouting, rather than saying! So we can escape the real enough to look back upon it and take note.
Dear me, I am so damaged by the real and at the same time so damaged by the unreal. For the unreal pushes the real before us and makes us start in horror at the immense gap in between want we lean to and what we lean upon. |
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| eeerrrmmmm... |
[Apr. 15th, 2009|12:07 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  curious | ] |
Well, that didn't work.
I got about 356 pages further into Karamazov, so le shit has bounded off le proverbial wall.
The post-MA-funk continueth. To be fair, I got a job shortly after that last post and am now in full-time, full-wage, only-death-is-left work.
Since then, however, I have tentatively begun proper reading. I mean PROPER- you know, where the promise of shock-horrors or sex is not the only thing that will keep you glued to the page. Of course I mean modernist sex and shock-horror (acceptable, yet feels comfortably clandestine at the same time), I've not taken up Nuts. I have even got onto grand old Hardy! You know how some days you wake up with an outstanding craving. Well, mine was hardcore, it was THOMAS HARDY. Mind you, I didn't want any of that out-and-out depressing shit, like Tess or Jude, whose life-happiness scattergraph reads like a very modern tale of the world economy. That's the last thing anyone who has regular train to catch needs. This narrowed my options considerably. I am now reading A Pair of Blue Eyes and I know it will end badly and right now things are turning very shitty for Elfride, but I have less than 100 pages to go so I consider this a veritable tale of sunshine and life-invigorating joy coming from Hardy.
Where to turn next though? I am longing for the comfortable pie of a nice Victorian Novel. Not too many characters, can't face the wish-wash, possibly a nice bit of poetic reverie (Hardy is on fire in Blue Eyes!) and an oddly sexy hero. I am working my way back to Proust, but my heart needs a good feed before my brain can take the pain. I shall therefore chub up on good old-fashioned fiction before the starvation that comes of the 20thC. |
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| Proust Project Part V |
[Oct. 4th, 2008|01:23 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | Le Chateau de Jo-Jo | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  indescribable | ] |
| [ | music |
| | whirring computer and scrunchy cotton in blocked ear | ] |
It is almost reassuring that no one reads ljs anymore, thus i can keep hold of a hopefully in depth record of the penultimate year of the Proust Project in relative privacy that comes with a lj open to the entire world to view.
Hopefully with Proust's return cometh mine intellectual renaissance... Or a bookmark at page 360 a la The Brothers Karamazov. I know, that's sounds terminal!!! Lulled into a pit of apathy and other people's (daytime tv), I sit tight in my cocoon, absolutely wishing for nothing more than a loss of all will. Here I decide that better than surrendering my will to others' I will surrender it to the greatest: Proust.
We have much in common at present. He probably didn't get up until 11am most mornings (and even then he probably only sat up, so 1-0 Jo) and he was pissed off with everything. But he wrote (1-1). At a disadvantage on this score, I shall therefore read.
Let the Project commence! |
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| crapbollocksshitwankarsefeckfuckfeck |
[Sep. 14th, 2007|12:57 am] |
I can't believe I'm STILL writing this fucking dissertation. Or that I have actually posted on me lj (it's almost retro nowadays)- things must be going really bad. I was planinng to be finished precisely now in order to pay my respects to George Eliot at Highgate tomorrow, but this bitching piece of crap is such turdy nonsense that if I saw Eliot's grave right now, I'd probably hurl some abuse... and a pile of dissertation printouts. As it stands, I'm off to sleep, perchance to DIE before tomorrow and not have to look again upon that moribund, pestilential piece of poo nor the possibility of having no job, being forced into full time at retail hell the second (oh, it's not THAT bad) and giving up on all hope of further brain enlargement because despite having the coolest bitch of a concept, it has still come out as turgid, feculential ARSE! |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 13th, 2007|07:33 pm] |
Oh, to fall in love with a scientist! I will say that I am the kind of person who has so many ambitions that you can't really take them seriously, but I am decided- this week AT LEAST- to marry meself a scientist. They are the only people who can see the wonder of the world without sucking on an illusion lozenge.
I might undo this by saying my current fascination with scientia sexualis is because I'm reading Wives and Daughters ('that's DH Lawrence?'- NO!) and Roger Hamley is absolutely edible. So in actual fact, my need for science is generated from the illusion that is fictional writing- but I pass over that.
Or perhaps i should just stick with what i know best: hums. You know, if you're not a bee, don't go to the hive, that sort of thing. I never knew a situation that couldn't have a fake bee-proverb attached to it. Perhaps the spirit of Virgil is communicating through me like it did that professor. i do hope so.
Needless to say I am only writing (and speaking of Foucault, though that was a paragraph ago) because I have a few essays to do by next monday. The current foucauldian stuff is about Wilde (I know, talking about that tosser again!) and Stevenson as subverting the cult of the visual in late victorian society. I hope to bring some onanism into it. Basically, I have been staring at pictures of 'crazies' until they haunt my dreams. However, fin de sieclers seemed to think that you were mad if you looked a bit sad, or fed up... and had mad hair. Which certainly cannot be true, else I fear for myself. But seriously, if Lombroso thinks he can detect criminality in plantlife as well as people, I think the world is safe from his mad-cap schemes. |
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| Fucking Oscar Wilde... |
[Mar. 15th, 2007|04:01 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | giddy | ] |
I hate him so much in principle... yet whenever I read him I STILL bloody laugh. I assure you it is quite against my own will.
The stupid plays as well. Dickhead. Absolute comic dickhead.
What did he die of?
Bunbury? Oh, he was quite exploded.
Chekhov is foremost in my thoughts at present (and when indeed is he not, the entire front section of my brain seems devoted to him, a lobotomy alone could remove him) following a quite hilarious performance of Platonov which involved an in-theatre swimming-pool, sand, Russian-butt and perhaps the greatest come-on in the history of sexiness:
Smoke me like a cigarette.
I really think it would have been less funny in English and I say this having sat in the front row barely able to see any surtitles.
Sufficed to say, this was not Chekhov of the usual order- it was almost like situation comedy with gun shots aplenty and one 'moscow' to remind you of its author. No wonder you can't buy a copy for love nor less than £10 (well, unless you want the cut down translation, NOT by Chekhov, I hasten to add) in money- it doesn't hold with the others. Though it does hold water- lots. I was surprised, but not annoyed.
Uni continues fine, though the end of lessons is nigh. I must add that Djuna Barnes' Nightwood is simply a spectacular novel. I could hook you with promises of TS Eliot approvation, poetic jingliness (it might kill you), massive confusion, cross-dressing and fierce women. But instead I call common and mention that the very final scene has a dog being jacked-off in a church. And it is NOT disturbing so much because of this, nor is it porn- though it is obscene. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 24th, 2007|12:27 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  blah | ] |
| [ | music |
| | postal service (they're still good)... | ] |
291: fondue |
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| A brief notice... |
[Jan. 30th, 2007|09:02 pm] |
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Belated birthday wishes to my beloved Chekhov for yesterday! Fuck dogs or sheep or butternut squash, 2007 is the year of CHEKHOV. Next week I shall be seeing the Seagull and Vanya, followed by Platonov and 3 sisters. Bless you great man, sweet prince of misery, angel of mercy and bless every word of joyous despair that ever crossed your lips! |
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| An idea... |
[Sep. 30th, 2006|10:49 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  cold | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Wagner- Siegfried | ] |
So someone on my sis' Criminology MA is a convicted murderer. And he got to do degrees and everything whilst in prison, which is majorly unfair, so...
Let's all commit some crimes (obviously of a certain magnitude, you need at least a 3yr sentence guarranteed, we're talking manslaughter, murder, GBH with intent etc etc) and then get some free degrees. What an incentive!
It would certainly solve the problem of my having to leave uni and get a job. |
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| Alas, jmak, it's not far wrong in my case... |
[Sep. 28th, 2006|04:54 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  chipper | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Kate Bush | ] |
| You Are Sex On the Beach | 
When comes to drinking, you like it to go down smooth.
You really don't like the taste of alcohol - just its effect on you.
So, you're proud to get drunk on fruity, girly drinks.
Because once you're liquored up, the fun begins! |
Perhaps it's true and you're just a beer-bellied rough Essex boy in denial. Can't say it fits me exactly, but I'm not an alcohol demon and I like girly drinks... |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 16th, 2006|01:56 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  exhausted | ] |
I feel less inclined to lj because I feel less... amusing as a person. I feel that I am a deeply boring person. Or perhaps it's that as a person i am deeply bored... understimulated, one might say. This should end soon, with the commencement of my MA. HOWEVER, I have nasty, bile-flavoured nudges of inadequacy. Academia, could that be for me? I lack... a certain amount of discipline.
Back from hols though and have learned some vital life lessons:
1. I have a minor talent for scrabble. I say minor, I was not playing against Germaine Greer. From this I have learned that games are always fun when you're winning and conversely, that scrabble (when going badly) can end in divorce.
2. Mussels can be dangerous. In addition, vomiting spit all night is tiresome, sleeping upright is only possible when unconsciously done... obviously you are unconscious, but you know what I mean. Finally, vomiting through your nose at the airport is horrendous.
nextdoor to our room were a family who who basically a more upper class version of us. Card tournaments, paper-reading. Two sons- one out running all day, the other on the balcony reading all afternoon, almost a mirror image of me and my sibling. Made me wonder what kind of man I'd have made. Probably worse than I am now. I may have been gay.
Anyway, to more important things: theatre. well, not exactly. Anyone who might care to listen knows I am going through theatre-trauma and have done so for nearly 2 years and am nearly at the point of giving it up for a while.
As a pleasant reminder of the great days of my theatrical life, Michael Sheen is going to be Nero in this BBC Rome thingy, this week. Takes me back to the time of his outstanding (dear me, how many times i have said this!) performance as Caligula in Camus' play of the same name. Now, as the principles of these 2 characters are largely the same (ie, fucking sadists) I am looking forward huuuugely to this. For from great theatre experiences (Caligula above all) I have learned that I demand a lot from a play. I went to see Joyce's Exiles knowing full well that I wanted nothing short of a head-exploding, vomit inducing time. I am not satisfied unless I leave feeling sick to my stomach (jmak can attest to my close call on the district line) and with a pounding headache. I haven't felt this in a while. Exiles came very close to something like intensity- unfortunately it then ended. But where-oh-where is the passion?
Actually I watched this film of Strindberg's Miss Julie with Saffron Burrows and it was effing good. Theatrically so, too, there was no attempt to filmify the play and i liked this. In fact, I wish i had been sitting in a theatre, it would have made my year. She didn't even need to top herself- it had enough sherzam.
'You dog with my name on your collar!'
she shouts (NOT screams, what fabulously realistic passion she has!) I'm getting excited just thinking about it. Burrows really was excellent, looked the part too. fabulous change from all that talk, all that acting, that sterility (my goodness I love a sterile performance, onward to the heart of Chekhov!) into absolute emotion. Emotion undiluted, unmixed and thus absolutely sincere. From nothing to pure hatred or pure ire or pure shame. Not tempered with other feelings, we're not dealing with filmic pitiful emotion, emotion tempered so that we lapdogs might 'identify' with it. Emotion that is worth writing about, that's what it is. It's what we don't have, it is more than we are capable of. Impossible to explain.
Anyway, let us live in hope. I walked past the Duke of York's and saw the pics of stoppard's Rock and Roll (I'm not going, in spite of myself) - I actually palpitated slightly at the sight of Rufus Sewell, oh what a fool I am!!! |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 19th, 2006|11:05 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | calm | ] |
| [ | music |
| | an olive grove facing teh sea | ] |
If I ever find you I will melt your head under a grill and post you through the wrong letterbox.
I love the 'saved from last draft' function. write something, don't post and come back to it later and realise how boring i am. Thus I keep the above fragment like a piece of Sappho and let ye all dream about who I am referring to and why.
Anyway, enough of the office and discussing washing machines (one of the zeniths of office conversation that I had the pleasure of partaking in- albeit it in a passive manner, my knowledge of the aforementioned article not being all that robust). They are all very lovely and they feed this cat that comes in as though it were their own. A can of tuna? The children have all grown up and left home, presumably. Actually, the cat hasn't been in for a while. I almost said 'perhaps it got run over' and then wet myself realising how close I'd come to lynching.
Having been there for so long, I have almost picked up that most dreadful of office habits- talking to yourself. This comes from the absurd office principle that what you're doing actually matters. I do appreciate that quality in life has to be found where it may, even if this is in mounds of papers and complaining about pensioners who can't write out their cheques properly.
Off on hols soon. The flavour is of rock star soap, Wagner (I have purchased the Furtwanger Ring Cycle and a companion) and Tristam Shandy. The basic idea is that the concentrated period of the two week holiday is the perfect time to get to know something new intimately. It has worked very well on previous occasions (let me say nothing of the disastrus Henry James palaver in Turkey episode) and though this year is a bit of an eclectic mix, i have the highest of hopes. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 5th, 2006|12:09 pm] |
PS- correctimundo, jmak, there is no hope in Chekhov's plays. not that he writes tragedy, anymore than the essential fabric of life is tragic. In this sense we could say it is ordinary...
And I didn't think The Seagull was nearly depressing enough. I moistened a little when K burned his work, but really, carrying around that huge gun like a schoolboy threat was a bit silly. it lessed the habitual Chekhovian gunshot immeasureably. I was NOT amused by this. |
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| The Seagull or... the problem with modern theatre.. |
[Aug. 5th, 2006|11:38 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  cranky | ] |
O dear, o woe thou thinkst, thou stinkst- but I didn't hate it. being honest the last time theatre really excited me was Lear about 2 seasons ago. I will say that Gorky's Enemies the other month had a lot of what I like in a play with the fabulously drunken Jack Davenport playing one of those layabouts that theatre was made for. However... The Seagull was good, but not mindblowing. Alas, the modernising touches- the perkier dialogue, the more pacey (well, the pace was a somewhat messy, but not quite in the right disjointed manner) style and the lack of speechiness... all made me think that if the adaptor really wasn't into the Chekhovian style why the fuck did he chose a Chekhov???
Okay, now I like my plays a certain way. If they are funny, they need to be hilarious- I really can't stand it when you know that an audience is making an effort to laugh... you can hear it. If they are dark and dramatic, equally so they must be fucking tremendous in this sense. If they are going to sit around talking for three hours I demand nothing more- no walking quickly, no flashy quips, just out and out MISERY. This is why i am booking tickets to James Joyce's Exiles (also it may be the only chance i get this lifetime)- if it's going to be heavy, it needs to be suffocating.
Of course, the Seagull is part comedy, I accept that. But if it has a darker message, I believe a play should have comedy to reflect that, ie, similar darkness or a contrasting, jarring extremity in he laughs dept. I will say that the UN Inspector failed in this respect. Enough of that.
I liked it. I liked (mostly) Whishaw even though I picture Konstantin as a more sexy, full-figured man. Whishaw's weedy uni-fodder look just means that he gets the whiny teenager side of K a bit too overdone- poor lad, he'll have those kinds of roles until he turns grey. Juliet stevenson was marvellous- she made some fabulous shapes too- which felt a bit more classic.
My main point was with the problem of plays. All this realism, this servants running in and out cause that's how it would be in real life really is beside the point. It's not real life- it's a fucking stage in which something bigger than a lifetime is trapped in three hours. We have films make love to the tedium of reality, which they do- and better. As I told jmak- who paints likenesses now we have photgraphy? No, as theatre has been overrun by cinema, it must return to its own strengths- those that film could never replicate. And funnily enough, many of these strengths we find are some of the strings to Chekhov's theatrical lyre, as 'twere. We have the claustrophobia of having one set at a time, one space for the characters, the utter darkness (yet the knowledge that life is going on) everywhere outside of that space, the importance of DIALOGUE, the stillness and the sense of entrapment... I might go on. Chekhov's art might not hold the superficial unities of theatre- the Aristotlean ones- but that's because he has a deeper unity- a unity of vision. And his method fits this precisely and what is more, fits the medium of theatre precisely. So why change that?
Anyway, who cares? Who actually cares? |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 28th, 2006|07:36 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | cranky | ] |
Can't type, too bored. Might play some more Civilisation or use up all the printer ink with notes on Dostoyevsky and TS Eliot and then blame it on my sis. I can do this because I am the youngest in more than age and because I have regressed so far since going to uni that I don't think I can make a cup of tea. I can make cake, though- and I feel that I am being whored by my family for this great gift of mine. Perhaps I have hit old age early. Like old people get doddery and childlike and, well, irritating because it makes them easier to let go of. I didn't say that, but i silently agreed, just like cruel things can be true. And I know I am about the most irritating burden short of a penioner that has been impailed upon the world like a bug on a pin. Thinking of Eliot, do I want to be 20th century or 19th? I really can't make my mind up. I finished this Tim Pears book and it was good, really, very good (In the Place of Fallen Leaves). About a VERY hot summer... I really wish people would stop talking about how fucking hot it is and live in fucking Zambia, come back and complain some more. Oh, yeah, but their used to it apparently. So when the crops fail yet again they'll say, 'that's okay, it's just the heat, we're used to it'. Grrr...
Actually, the Seagull in 6 days time. Apparently Kristin Scott Thomas and Mackenzie Crook (?) will be performin it at te Royal Court come january... But now I'm feeling very unreasonable and I want vanya instead!
Out today, in the sunshine with my curious obsession with extreme heat- some kind of LP Hartley thing- where I seem to almost invoke Ra himself, dare it to get hotter, just to know that it can been borne. Like if you sit very still and feel the heat pressing upon you and it's very personal weatehr. Yerk... the sound of children laughing in the sun makes me want to rip my own ovaries out. Children irritate me, they're so stupid. Yes, but they learn 80% of they're lifetime's knowledge by the time they're 5. Well, that's the boring stuff. Boring things don't actually count. If they can't do more with the basics then they haven't learned enough in life. I know i haven't. And i'm boring.
I have this theory about crisis. Life is unliveable when we don't have it. People crave it. This i notice when I do office work. What people want in this safe country is a fucking tornado. They really want to live. Off to play civilisation, now, kick some butt... n'shit. |
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| Oh just the usual... |
[Jul. 5th, 2006|08:37 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | content | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Mercury Rev- Goddess on a Highway | ] |
Enough of the ego already. Working at uni at the mo- how I shall miss the little classics dept with its pokiness (it's in the old strand station)- watching the traffic along the strand whilst not learning my Greek, not preparing for my lectures, THE GREEK PLAY, numerous bizarre lecturers and the combination of cool kids, geeks and absolute cocks that are the student body. Now over to the more impersonal, dress code: head-to-toe Topshop, English dept. I'm really going to miss it- there's nothing like th world of classics. For example, today we crashed the daily lecture (that follows the language lessons I am admin-ing) which was 'build your own triereme' and (I tell no lies) there were 2 (completely unrelated) men wearing eye patches! I can't remember the last time I saw one, and you go to a classics' lecture and you get 2 in the same room. The last lecture will be the annual debate and this year's topic will be 'who is the greatest hero?' Should be fabulous, but I'm already half-sold on prometheus.
Anywa, having a great time in the open classrooms-photocopying-teabreak--teabreak- photocopying-top up stocks of tea and biscuits-teabreak-lunchbreak-teabreak-photocopying-teabreak-teabreak-home day that is working at the mo. The lectures are just a huge bonus to what is, essentially one long teabreak of a day.
It is also conducive to my study of office work (which I have experience across the board at- a first class dogsbody indeed) from which I intend to create my great comic novel (the only one, for the rest will be fucking mental tragedies) - a mixture of lighthearted scorn and compassion in which the depths of the human character is revealed: the love of crisis (some kind of repressed instinct for drama) and where, even though at uni they might discuss whether mello has an aorist and read the guardian, still beneath the class system common notes of humanity prevail, usually those involving tea. In one case we have tescos, in the other twinings, but tea is still central. There is a lesson to be learned, that of the universal language of tea.
Listening to Mercury Rev now: the lyrics are just the best ever:
'When I see your eyes arrive, they explode like 2 bugs on glass'. Love the idea of eyes arriving, also love 'far above the ocean, deep under the sea, there's a river running dry, cause of you and me'- it doesn't make a lot of sense with the sea/ocean thing, but that whole world outside your own line of fire is smart. I'm reading banville's the Sea and by golly, he knows a sweet line. It's very poetic, very surprising in terms of language (though can be a bit too much) and marvellously visual. |
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| Hurrah for me... |
[Jul. 4th, 2006|09:29 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | ecstatic | ] |
I'm going to say it because I'm sick of being made to feel bad for doing well- as if achievement is uncool. Or that because I did okay it's because I'm lucky when I did in fact work fucking hard. For all the tossers who have treated me like a moron because I can't remember what a genitive absolute is, or think I'm some brainless stateschool Essex girl who doesn't know the length of Alexander the Great's penis and thus is a little nobody:
I GOT A FIRST! I GOT A FIRST! I GOT A FIRST!
Put that in your skinny jeans and mash it. And what is more precious, i have won the approbation of the most intelligent man I have and probably shall ever meet. |
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| Just remembered... |
[Jun. 28th, 2006|11:13 am] |
having pc'd sister ray, remembered that- quelle excitement- have just booked tickets to see Beckett's Hey Joe put on stage (it was written for TV) for the first time. Michael Gambon will be performing (still remember him from last year as falstaff- he's a dude). It's a short show, so I feel slightly robbed, but it should be worth it. Beckett's monologues are out of this world- whatever that means. |
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| Special K... |
[Jun. 28th, 2006|10:38 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  awake | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Hello Earth- Kate Bush | ] |
Since... well a number of factors that I haven't the patience to explain, boring things don't warrant patience, well my sis has for some time now been engaging me in these conversations. All sorts of things, hard to say without sounding dreadfully full of oneself, cause it's just speckilation... However, I was explaining Kirilov's theory of why he should kill himself and when you mulch it long enough, it's fascinating. Thought I would record it here:
* God is necessary to man.
* But (says K) God cannot and does not exist.
Living with this huge contradiction means that he has slipped the loop of mankind- he is now God and that all he can do, all he is BOUND to do to prove he is correct is to commit the ultimate act of self-will- suicide.
'Bound' and 'self-will'- that rings like a cow bell I know. I'd want to know Russian to check, because it's definitely 'self-will' and not 'free-will'- are these things the same? Or can you be bound by self in a way that it is not 'free'?
But back to the main point- K has uncovered the idea that man needs (it is necessary) God to exist - that man's existence and that of God are bound up, man is bound to believe in God because it's (?) a precondition of human existence, God makes life liveable- and so K takes it to its 'logical' conclusion. If he discovers the fallacy of our dependence on God (that we believe in God only because we exist), that:
man = (belief in) God
then he displaces God- he is God. Furthermore, if God does not exist, then man should not. To prove to the world that God does not exist, K must prove that he is his own God and can only do this by the extreme act of self-will, the only way of saying that he (his existence) is not dependent on God- by killing himself. Remove one side of the equation and you must remove the other- yourself.
Yes, there are atheists who don't kill themselves, but this is because they have not followed their belief through to its natural conclusion. In K's sense, thus, they are still believing in God.
At least that's how it works in my head, and goodness knows I'm not an expert, my knowledge is born only of fiction. Obviously I don't ascribe to his theory, but I can see the sense in it. To my mind there's theories and there's theories and there's peoples and there's peoples. At least it's not prey to the dreaded freefall relativism of this century, you can follow the thread back, theseus-like, if you see what I mean. Anyway, just needed to get that in writing for the sake of my sanity. |
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