literature

literature

"But there is no female counterpart in our culture to Ishmael or Huck Finn. There is no Dean Moriarty, Sal, or even a Fuckhead. It sounds like a doctoral crisis, but it’s not. As a fifteen-year-old hitchhiker, my survival depended upon other people’s ability to envision a possible future for me. Without a Melvillean or Kerouacian framework, or at least some kind of narrative to spell out a potential beyond death, none of my resourcefulness or curiosity was recognizable, and therefore I was unrecognizable."

Vanessa Veselka: “The Lack of Female Road Narratives and Why It Matters”

Taken from a television interview between Sir David Frost and Quentin Tarantino on Frost Over the World.

Quentin Tarantino1

  
David Frost: Your approach to film is tremendously as much a writer as a director, isn’t it?
  
Quentin Tarantino: Oh, very much so, yeah, very much so.
  
DF: At any particular moment?
  
QT: It’s more like when I am writing the script, even though I’m thinking about cinematic things and this and that and the other, when I’m putting pen to paper, it’s F the movie, it is about the page. It is really, seriously about the page. I’m writing literature at this point. My stuff gets published, and it is about it working on the page. I put scenes in the script that I kind of know I will never film, but, because I don’t think the movie will need it, but the written script needs it. It clarifies it for the reading, it makes it better for the reading. And part of my job is to kind of realize what I don’t need as I’m making the movie. Now, once I’m making the movie, then I will not only think about the script that much, and now I’m making the movie. But when it comes time to the writing of it, it really is about the pen and paper and nothing else. And not only that, not only that. I have one other thing to that…is, and I feel, I need to feel this way, this way I know that I’ve done a good job is, if I’ve done the script and I do what I want to do, then I have to question the idea that, you know what, if I don’t make this movie, if I just publish this, I’m done, I’m done and I’ve got it. I’ve won. Alright. It’s mine to F up, right, if I go on but right now I’m done. Now I don’t do that, I go and make the movie, but I always consider it. And if I don’t feel that way about the script, then I know I haven’t done that good of a job.

Alfred Jarry

Alfred Jarry

‘Pataphysics is a pseudophilosophy dedicated to studying what lies beyond the realm of metaphysics. The term was coined and the concept created by French writer Alfred Jarry, who defined ‘pataphysics as “the science of imaginary solutions, which symbolically attributes the properties of objects, described by their virtuality, to their lineaments.” Jarry considered Hippocrates of Chios and Sophrotatos the Armenian as the fathers of this “science”.

“Applause…comes thundering with such force you might think the audience merely suffers the music as an excuse for its ovations.” Alfred Jarry

Baudelaire: Le Thyrse (à Franz Liszt)

32. Le Thyrse

À Franz Liszt

    Qu’est-ce qu’un thyrse?  Selon le sens moral et poétique, c’est un emblème sacerdotal dans la main des prêtres ou prêtresses célébrant la divinité dont ils sont les interprètes et les serviteurs.  Mais physiquement ce n’est qu’un bâton, un pur bâton, perche à houblon, tuteur de vigne, sec, dur et droit.  Autour de ce bâton, dans des méandres capricieux, se jouent et folâtrent des tiges et des fleurs, celles-ci sinueuses et fuyardes, celles-là penchées comme des cloches ou des coupes renversées.  Et une gloire étonnante jaillit de cette complexité de lignes et de couleurs, tendres ou éclatantes.  Ne dirait-on pas que la ligne courbe et la spirale font leur cour à la ligne droite et dansent autour dans une muette adoration?  Ne dirait-on pas que toutes ces corolles délicates, tous ces calices, explosions de senteurs et de couleurs, exécutent un mystique fandango autour du bâton hiératique?  Et quel est, cependant, le mortel imprudent qui osera décider si les fleurs et les pampres ont été faits pour le bâton, ou si le bâton n’est que le prétexte pour montrer la beauté des pampres et des fleurs?  Le thyrse est la représentation de votre étonnante dualité, maître puissant et vénéré, cher Bacchant de la Beauté mystérieuse et passionnée.  Jamais nymphe exaspérée par l’invincible Bacchus ne secoua son thyrse sur les têtes de ses compagnes affolées avec autant d’énergie et de caprice que vous agitez votre génie sur les c�urs de vos frères. — Le bâton, c’est votre volonté, droite, ferme et inébranlable; les fleurs, c’est la promenade de votre fantaisie autour de votre volonté; c’est l’élément féminin exécutant autour du mâle ses prestigieuses pirouettes.  Ligne droite et ligne arabesque, intention et expression, roideur de la volonté, sinuosité du verbe, unité du but, variété des moyens, amalgame tout-puissant et indivisible du génie, quel analyste aura le détestable courage de vous diviser et de vous séparer?

    Cher Liszt, à travers les brumes, par delà les fleuves, par-dessus les villes où les pianos chantent votre gloire, où l’imprimerie traduit votre sagesse, en quelque lieu que vous soyez, dans les splendeurs de la ville éternelle ou dans les brumes des pays rêveurs que console Cambrinus, improvisant des chants de délectation ou d’ineffable douleur, ou confiant au papier vos méditations abstruses, chantre de la Volupté et de l’Angoisse éternelles, philosophe, poëte et artiste, je vous salue en l’immortalité!


32. The Thyrsus

For Franz Liszt

    What is a thyrsus?  According to the moral and poetic definition, it is a sacerdotal symbol in the hands of priests or priestesses celebrating the divinity of which they are the interpreters and the servants.  But physically it is only a baton, a pure baton, a hop-pole, a vine-stake, dry, hard, and straight.  Around this baton, in capricious meanderings, play and frolic vine-stems and flowers, the first sinuous and fugitive, the second bent over like bells or like overturned goblets.  And an astonishing glory leaps from that complexity of lines and of colors, whether tender or showy.  Might one not say that the curved line and the spiral court the straight line and dance around it in mute adoration?  Might one not say that all of these delicate corollas, all of these calyxes, explosions of scent and of color, perform a mystical fandango around the hieratic baton?  And yet, who is the foolhardy mortal who would dare to determine whether the flowers and the vine-branches were made for the baton, or if the baton is only the pretext for displaying the beauty of the vine-branches and the flowers?  The thyrsus is the representation of your astonishing duality, powerful and venerated master, dear Bacchant of mysterious and passionate Beauty.  Never did a nymph inflamed by invincible Bacchus shake her thyrsus over the heads of her maddened companions with as much energy and capriciousness as you agitate your genius over the hearts of your brothers. — The baton is your will, straight, firm, and unshakeable; the flowers are your fancy promenading around your will; it is the feminine element executing around the male its marvelous pirouettes.  Straight line and arabesque line, intention and expression, rigidity of the will, sinuosity of the word, unity of the end, variety of the means, all-powerful and indivisible amalgam of genius, what analyst would have the detestable courage to divide you and to separate you?

    Dear Liszt, through the mists, beyond the rivers, over the cities where the pianos sing your glory, where the printer conveys your wisdom, wherever you are, in the splendors of the eternal city or in the mists of the dreamy lands that console Cambrinus, improvising songs of delectation or of ineffable sorrow, or confiding to paper your abstruse meditations, bard of eternal Delight and Anguish, philosopher, poet, and artist, I salute you in immortality!

 

Prose poem in Le Spleen de Paris, ed. posth. 1869

From A Clockwork Orange

“Oh it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise silverflamed, and there by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out again crunched like candy thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now, came the violin solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like a cage of silk round my bed. Then flute and oboe bored, like worms of like platinum, into the thick thick toffee gold and silver. I was in such bliss, my brothers.”

— Anthony Burgess – A Clockwork Orange