Something new
The so called “weblog” isn’t the only modern literary form worthy of the Flâneur’s attention. Indeed, I’ve been off writing these long months, creating something for the screen. Eponymous, naturally; a portrait of my experiences, as befits those interested in preserving something of themselves; a sideways glance at my motivations, associates, and interests, appropriate for he who wishes to assert himself and yet remain opaque and in the shadows.
Narrative is a passion of mine, and this is the dominant contemporary genre of the discourse. I create in it with no real malice or passion, leaving such preoccupations and value judgments to the small-minded and the academicians. Nevertheless, this must be said:
While I need not justify myself in any way to any man, I admit I adore the novel and other readerly vs. watcherly texts. But I’m obsessed, of late, with the graphic. It preoccupies me in the same way a gelding finds himself thinking of nothing but sport. This exercise indulged an appetite.
C’est tout! Ça suffit! Back to your dusty lairs and clean taxonomies! Leave the artists to their interests!
I am much less settled on one issue, though. After creating this, I’m left wondering: why does violence so seduce the storyteller and the artist? (Here, I’m thinking of Goya and Genet.) Why does its aestheticization cut so cleanly across class lines and interest groups and yet maintain its essential integrity and elevated appeal?
Sweeter than the syrup dripping off romance, it seems, blood renews itself with each kill. Writers and audience voyeurs know this as well as any butcher. Any opinion to the contrary seems delusory and hypocritical.
