Writers you hate

Mr. Tea

Mr. Tea

Let's Talk About Ceps
But I had seen first one and then another of the rooms in which I had slept during my life, and in the end I would revisit them all in the long course of my waking dream: rooms in winter, where on going to bed I would at once bury my head in a nest, built up out of the most diverse materials, the corner of my pillow, the top of my blankets, a piece of a shawl, the edge of my bed, and a copy of an evening paper, all of which things I would contrive, with the infinite patience of birds building their nests, to cement into one whole; rooms where, in a keen frost, I would feel the satisfaction of being shut in from the outer world (like the sea-swallow which builds at the end of a dark tunnel and is kept warm by the surrounding earth), and where, the fire keeping in all night, I would sleep wrapped up, as it were, in a great cloak of snug and savoury air, shot with the glow of the logs which would break out again in flame: in a sort of alcove without walls, a cave of warmth dug out of the heart of the room itself, a zone of heat whose boundaries were constantly shifting and altering in temperature as gusts of air ran across them to strike freshly upon my face, from the corners of the room, or from parts near the window or far from the fireplace which had therefore remained cold — or rooms in summer, where I would delight to feel myself a part of the warm evening, where the moonlight striking upon the half-opened shutters would throw down to the foot of my bed its enchanted ladder; where I would fall asleep, as it might be in the open air, like a titmouse which the breeze keeps poised in the focus of a sunbeam — or sometimes the Louis XVI room, so cheerful that I could never feel really unhappy, even on my first night in it: that room where the slender columns which lightly supported its ceiling would part, ever so gracefully, to indicate where the bed was and to keep it separate; sometimes again that little room with the high ceiling, hollowed in the form of a pyramid out of two separate storeys, and partly walled with mahogany, in which from the first moment my mind was drugged by the unfamiliar scent of flowering grasses, convinced of the hostility of the violet curtains and of the insolent indifference of a clock that chattered on at the top of its voice as though I were not there; while a strange and pitiless mirror with square feet, which stood across one corner of the room, cleared for itself a site I had not looked to find tenanted in the quiet surroundings of my normal field of vision: that room in which my mind, forcing itself for hours on end to leave its moorings, to elongate itself upwards so as to take on the exact shape of the room, and to reach to the summit of that monstrous funnel, had passed so many anxious nights while my body lay stretched out in bed, my eyes staring upwards, my ears straining, my nostrils sniffing uneasily, and my heart beating; until custom had changed the colour of the curtains, made the clock keep quiet, brought an expression of pity to the cruel, slanting face of the glass, disguised or even completely dispelled the scent of flowering grasses, and distinctly reduced the apparent loftiness of the ceiling.
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tl;dr
 
Clinamenic

Clinamenic

Binary & Tweed
entertainment said:
i think of it more as a belief in language as a technology to get to the bottom of things. post-modernism as a reaction to the failure of that project.
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Interesting take... Never thought about it like that. The poststructuralism thread of postmodernism would probably say that this failure is because there is no bottom.
 
Clinamenic

Clinamenic

Binary & Tweed
I'd like everyone to know that I made that poststructuralism comment at 6am before I even had my first sip of coffee.
 
mixed_biscuits

mixed_biscuits

_________________________
The involvement of more women might have something to do with it, as they're less eager to show off and, certainly when it comes to poetry, far less interested in form for its own sake, including rhyme.
 
Benny Bunter

Benny Bunter

Well-known member
linebaugh said:
The way the dashes are used is really confusing as it makes you think its some aside sandwiched in to a larger thought contained on either side of the dash, but really the thought ends just before the first dash and everything after the words 'despondent mounteank' is just him describing the behavior of a 'despondant mountebank.'
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Yeah I think you're right, cheers. You can't just leave the question mark till right to the end like that FFS. What a terrible sentence.
 
W

wild greens

Well-known member
उम्लौत विच्छेदक said:
Leftist panic about wrongthink on the Internet is a sign that it's going the other way, and it is my heartfelt belief that TikTok is the present day Lycaeum, Substack the Academy.
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Interesting reference Lycaeum

It is a nice thought if you are regarding the online world as extension of the new one or that the two are inexorably intertwined now etc.

Alternatively you could posit that the modern-day pursuit of technologic individualism has created for the large part a collective fear of progress and insular society, look at the nostalgia ridden retromania everyone goes on about; most of the apps' cultural contributions are collages of the past; corecore, the jungle/garage re-absorption is equivalent to lads in the 80s listening to 50s rock & roll now. Lost future

In turn this creates a gradual fear & anxiety towards the outside world & distrust differences between inhabitants, no? The algorithms, rather than understanding us through data, just let us swim in circles past everyone else doing the same thing.

Whereas the Lycaeum was ostensibly a meeting place for all factions, cults, exercise whatever- as important a place to Plato as for the lads in Anabasis. The Lycanan games side by side pontificating bastards, collective society etc

The drive within the apps meanwhile effectively creates a desire to perform for ourselves, first and foremost. Internal endorphin-led gratification from views/likes/RTs etc, the step away from the collective arena into the false pretence of one. Maybe less so during early stages of social media and public forums like this or reddit but eventually they all turn inward and lean into the self gratification cycle.

Even the grand old future of AI is just feeding on the carcass of the past, machine learnt on our nostalgic visions of the future, absorbing nothing but past achievements

A lot of the people quoted in this thread seem to be attempting to forge new styles or new ideas, it is hard to see where our current data regurgitation model diverges into something else rather than our own past cultures constantly recycling our past ideas

That's what i think anyway sorry for rambling
 
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