Sunday, January 31, 2010

poiesis



“Rendering a legacy of insightful novelty must stay an evolving thing,” I wrote at the “life world” blog.

That poiesis page is very rhetorical, but in the strong sense of serious engagement with conceptual prospects (as I see it).


Saturday, January 30, 2010

textual windows



Textual sketches sometimes don’t work, but that’s what sketches are for: experimentation. I have episodes of wanting to capture something purely immanent in textuality. It’s long fascinated me that phenomenology was always being done via text, such that reading was almost intrinsic to conveying what phenomenology is.


Friday, January 29, 2010

All the world as high school



The death of Salinger reminds me of high school, and that reminds me of my adult experience of teens. One of my favorite themes—which I could never have understood as a teen like I do now (because I’ve gotten so analytical, not just because adults can understand more) is the narcissistic wounding that teens do with excommunication from their circle. It’s not just an adolescent thing.


Thursday, January 28, 2010

J. D. Salinger has died.



That’s a big deal for me. Reading a NY Times appreciation of him tonight, I feel “Gawd, I thought I’d forgotten about him, but my life has been some weird commingling of Salinger characters.”
Mr. Salinger’s people tend to be outsiders—spiritual voyagers shipwrecked in a vulgar and materialistic world, misfits who never really outgrew adolescent feelings of estrangement.
However, I don’t really “identify with children.”

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Keatsian inspiration



>I’m not a Romantic, but I want to better appreciate the importance for poetry that Romanticism was. More important to me, though, is to gain a sense of poetics that’s fair to a sense of textual intimacy that I want to develop. Keatsian inspiration helps.


Tuesday, January 26, 2010

“Every piece of writing was like a pond...”



I wish I understood more about poetics as it’s been traditionally pursued. I came across a discussion of William Empson that’s enchanting.


Tuesday, January 19, 2010

I’m not Sartre’s son.



Before I saw you Sunday, a rainy night, I’d been at the bookstore—a long time. I won’t list all the ones I wanted to buy—too many. I have little time for even a few soon. It’s always like that! I can’t stand it. 24, I wanted for my library. I bought 6. Even 6 is too much. Maybe they’ll be inhabited within the year—after others, bought long ago, are read, having been carefully selected from many times more than those, bought way back. Or maybe the new 6 points in my pointillism of textual affairs shifts the whole sequence. (Spread them all on a floor, so the reading sequence becomes a broken line from book to book to book, maybe forming a pattern, as if a path itself is a message.)