From Susan Sontag’s notebooks, collected in Reborn—
effete
noctambulus
perfervid
detumescence
disheveled
so alluring, so cerebral
sodden
intriguing
corrupt dignity
lotophagous
elegiac
Meleager
disponibility
pardine
demotic
Harriette Wilson
garbure
satura
succulent
competent intellectual vulgarity of Aldous Huxley
Yellow Book preciousness
secretive
sturdy
pedantry + lechery
spleen
ribaldry
ilex
Klaxon
Book shelves series #39, thirty-ninth Sunday of 2012
Too many beers yesterday. Can’t write anything good.
Can’t even take a decent pic.
Ten of these shelves hold books; hence books shelves #40-49.
And then there’s another bookcase in this weird workshop space, so that’ll be #50.
And then I’ll revisit the thing that I keep review copies in. And then my nightstand, which was #1.
So that’ll be like, #s 51 and 52.
And since there are 53 Sundays in 2012 I’ll do some kind of summary post.
And then I’ll be done thank God.
“I don’t believe in a future life,” said Raskolnikov.
Svidrigaïlov sat lost in thought.
“And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort,” he said suddenly.
“He is a madman,” thought Raskolnikov.
“We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it’s one little room, like a bath house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that’s all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like that.”
“Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more comforting than that?” Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of anguish.
“Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you know it’s what I would certainly have made it,” answered Svidrigaïlov, with a vague smile.
This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov.
From Chapter I of Part IV of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment.
William Gass, in his 1977 Paris Review interview—
INTERVIEWER
Is the reader an adversary for you?
GASS
No. I don’t think much about the reader. Ways of reading are adversaries—those theoretical ways. As far as writing something is concerned, the reader really doesn’t exist. The writer’s business is somehow to create in the work something which will stand on its own and make its own demands; and if the writer is good, he discovers what those demands are, and he meets them, and creates this thing which readers can then do what they like with. Gertrude Stein said, “I write for myself and strangers,” and then eventually she said that she wrote only for herself. I think she should have taken one further step. You don’t write for anybody. People who send you bills do that. People who want to sell you things so they can send you bills do that. People who want to tell you things so they can sell you things so they can send you bills do that. You are advancing an art—the art. That is what you are trying to do.
In reply to an inquiry, it was explained that a satisfactory novel should be a self-evident sham to which the reader could regulate at will the degree of his credulity. It was undemocratic to compel characters to be uniformly good or bad or poor or rich. Each should be allowed a private life, self-determination and a decent standard of living. This would make for self-respect, contentment and better service. It would be incorrect to say that it would lead to chaos. Characters should be interchangeable as between one book and another. The entire corpus of existing literature should be regarded as a limbo from which discerning authors could draw their characters as required, creating only when they failed to find a suitable existing puppet. The modern novel should be largely a work of reference. Most authors spend their time saying what has been said before – usually said much better. A wealth of references to existing works would acquaint the reader instantaneously with the nature of each character, would obviate tiresome explanations and would effectively preclude mountebanks, upstarts, thimble-riggers and persons of inferior education from an understanding of contemporary literature. Conclusion of explanation.
—From Flann O’Brien’s novel At Swim-Two-Birds (1939).
Biblioklept 