Total Posts:35|Showing Posts:1-30|Last Page
Jump to topic:

Narrative without story

Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
5/23/2013 3:33:55 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
In considering the differences between "story" and "narrative", I've become interested in the idea of a "storyless narrative": the literary rendering of some unordered, natural experience with no artificial or intended cohesion of events to create a "story".

I don't necessarily mean "stream of consciousness", just an overall absence of, or indifference to, any kind of formal plot. This may seem too unsubstantial, but it could achieve some kind of sustainable emotive realism.

Is this too eye-rollingly postmodern? (Or am I simply re-describing modernist styles?)
Which authors or works do you think successfully use "storyless narratives"? (Joyce/Ulysses?)

Am I making a false distinction between story and narrative?

Should I just go live in a cave and become a mythical wildman?
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
5/30/2013 12:11:34 AM
Posted: 3 years ago
Awesome. The silence is like a blank koan.
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
muzebreak
Posts: 2,781
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
5/31/2013 12:26:40 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
Sounds like life, to me. But death could well be seen the plot of life.
"Every kid starts out as a natural-born scientist, and then we beat it out of them. A few trickle through the system with their wonder and enthusiasm for science intact." - Carl Sagan

This is the response of the defenders of Sparta to the Commander of the Roman Army: "If you are a god, you will not hurt those who have never injured you. If you are a man, advance - you will find men equal to yourself. And women.
suttichart.denpruektham
Posts: 1,115
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
5/31/2013 12:34:28 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 5/23/2013 3:33:55 PM, Poetaster wrote:
In considering the differences between "story" and "narrative", I've become interested in the idea of a "storyless narrative": the literary rendering of some unordered, natural experience with no artificial or intended cohesion of events to create a "story".

I don't necessarily mean "stream of consciousness", just an overall absence of, or indifference to, any kind of formal plot. This may seem too unsubstantial, but it could achieve some kind of sustainable emotive realism.

Is this too eye-rollingly postmodern? (Or am I simply re-describing modernist styles?)
Which authors or works do you think successfully use "storyless narratives"? (Joyce/Ulysses?)

Am I making a false distinction between story and narrative?

Should I just go live in a cave and become a mythical wildman?

I think I will need some example on how this piece of literature can be made and enjoy...
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
5/31/2013 3:49:00 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 5/31/2013 12:34:28 PM, suttichart.denpruektham wrote:

I think I will need some example on how this piece of literature can be made and enjoy...

An example? Maybe a melodramatic excerpt of the kind of directionless effort I mean (I think it's a man in a supermarket):
-
On the way, he passed by a wall of cut flowers bunched into bouquets, all carefully nested in cellophane collars.
A beautiful show of the most tasteful amputation.
He saw the azaleas: her favorite. Sometimes he would buy them for her with no other reason in the world to do so. She was reason enough, or at least had been.

His wife had just died the previous year in that common accident of nature: old age. Cause of death: entropy.

He, by comparison, had begun living from birth (another common accident) and hadn't stopped since. Cause of life: entropy.

What a fickle rule! What unbreakable whim! It seemed entropy could do whatever it pleased. So Mr. Joyfellow grumbled to himself along these lines.

In truth, a rule which cannot be broken is no rule at all: it's a fact. The world has no rules; it's stronger than that. It has facts. We are weaker than the world; we have rules.

But Mr. Joyfellow was weaker even than rules, because he felt invented by them. And it's a terrible thing to feel like a invention. It's no better, and perhaps worse, to feel like an accident.

He shoved away a vestigial desire to buy the azaleas. They, too, would just die. Moreover, he was afraid that watching them die would encourage his body to do the same, and he wanted no inspiration to surrender in that way. As a matter of principle he resisted the option. But this was really to pit a rule against a fact: both have teeth; only one bites. It was the difference between traffic lights and death.
-

Other works of non-literary intent which evokes the feeling of "storyless narrative" in me are Plato's Dialogues: roving, discursive, and guided topically rather than by the linear forces of story-telling.
Perhaps a "storyless narrative" could be a kind dialectical emotivism.
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
Nasimmons
Posts: 2
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/1/2013 5:05:39 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
I'm happy I'm not the only one who has thought of this, and I feel the same way about it. I feel like I'm committing literature crime. Or maybe pushing the envelope. But I feel a bit at ease knowing I'm not the only one! And I do have an eg. As well

I'm just about finish pricking my fingers at the Medical Research Centre. These people are like vampires for my blood. But the money is good. After I'm done I take the elevator down and walk out the back door. Out into the streets of downtown Toronto. I stop to have a smoke before I duck underground to the subway. A lady is lighting up next to me, she is a bum. She picks up a use cigarette from the ground, lights the butt in order to kill the germs then she turns it around and lights what's left of the cigarette. Down the street a newly wed couple takes pictures, pretty daring pictures. One in the middle of the busy street, with the city streetcar as the background. Then they shout at the driver a thank you, as in thank you for not running us crazy love birds over in the middle of the street! My cigarette is finish, I out it and duck under.. Back to Scarborough I go, where its less crowded and more sane. I reach onto the subway platform and there is the same bum I seen smoking her bacteria sterilized cigarette upstairs. She is steering at an article about five feet tall and four feet wide posted on the subway wall with the title, "Why Don't Street Kids Just Get A Life?" The train comes and I find a seat in the back next to a nice smelling lady. The train continues its move. A dog on its leash, reaches out to a lady sitting on the opposite side of the train. She rubs the dog back and forth on its back, and under its tummy and under its neck, after all of the antics were done, the dog returned to its owner. At college station a lady with a red cross, tattooed on her right arm walks in the train. She is accompanied by a lesbian looking woman. Her head is shave except for a piece on top that falls over to the right of her skull, just reaching the tip of her ears. They talk enthusiastically about something. I assume it has something to do with Red Cross. At Yonge and Bloor I exit the train to catch the connecting train that runs east. A man is seen playing an instrument that you pull in and out with your hands, while hitting some buttons on one side, and on the other side pressing the keyboard. A young lady passing by, leans to her friend and says, " hey that's what John does" I wanted to inform her that what John does is play an accordion, but it wasn't wort it. I head down the stairs and arrive on the eastbound platform. A train is coming but I can tell right away it's out of service, because all of the cars are empty. Anyway, it passes by and a man in a big Mexican hat and a long trow over, wearing cowboy boots, puts his hands up in dismay as the train zooms past him. Further down, in between the eastbound platform and the westbound platform, i hear loud chattering coming from one man. But he is talking to a woman, I can't hear a squeak out of the aging black woman's mouth though.They seem to be having an argument. A lady goes over to try diffuse it, but she is met by the loud man's disproval, he says to her "mind your own business"and he shoos her away. I move closer to get a listen of what seems to be an entertaining spectacle, judging by the giddy faces now surrounding the man and the woman. The words start to form in my ears, they are talking about Jesus. He tells her Jesus was a magician, that he went to Egypt and he learned magic there, and when he came back he mention nothing about Egypt to any one. But he was turning water into wine, "that is magic" , he yell. The lady then mumble something about Jesus's death. Then the loud man with missing teeth reminded her that everybody dies. "But have anyone come back?" Ask the lady. The man answered "no, no", and with his strong Greek accent he ask sarcastically, "did you see anyone coming back?" The lady feeling frustrated walks off, the man says to her as she walks off, "why you worry about Jesus, worry about yourself and your relationship". The eastbound train destined for Scarborough arrives, and I board.
Nasimmons
Posts: 2
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/1/2013 5:09:57 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 5/23/2013 3:33:55 PM, Poetaster wrote:
In considering the differences between "story" and "narrative", I've become interested in the idea of a "storyless narrative": the literary rendering of some unordered, natural experience with no artificial or intended cohesion of events to create a "story".

I don't necessarily mean "stream of consciousness", just an overall absence of, or indifference to, any kind of formal plot. This may seem too unsubstantial, but it could achieve some kind of sustainable emotive realism.

Is this too eye-rollingly postmodern? (Or am I simply re-describing modernist styles?)
Which authors or works do you think successfully use "storyless narratives"? (Joyce/Ulysses?)

Am I making a false distinction between story and narrative?

Should I just go live in a cave and become a mythical wildman?

I just want to say everything you said here makes perfect sense to me. The whole storyless narrative thing, you just broke it down exactly how I couldn't have.
Beginner
Posts: 4,292
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 3:49:35 AM
Posted: 3 years ago
I think James Joyce writes the best narratives. I think all of them are written with the purpose of showcasing or bringing about a certain type of emotion rather than actually tell a story (although I can't say this for certain about Finnigan's Wake).
Well anyway, here's what I see.

The peddler streams slowly past the cobblestone street, the sound of his bell rang clear through the air. Dawn had broken more than half a day ago. No other sound was heard. Near the peddler, Edrun could be seen clearly through the window, a face of frustration painted into his head as he angrily contemplated the silence, the golden silence, having been shattered by a mere merchant; a rat.
They are all rats. The earth had been tunneled into unearthly structures. Uf dug holes. They all dug holes. They lived in them, catered them and plastered them with things. It eventually rolled past the fountain. The noise resounded louder, even through the windowpanes. It stopped and stared straight through the windowpane. It grinned and approached the windowpane. Edrun was balked. This was not what he had expected. The peddler turned and resumed his chiming. Why did it do that? The street is bustling with people. Why?
Why is it so dark? Edrun closed his eyes.
Night had fallen less than half a day ago. There was no peddler.
Senpai has noticed you.
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 6:16:07 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 4:18:42 AM, AnDoctuir wrote:
Are you guys writing this stuff or what? Those were both awesome.

Thanks, I'll admit that I wrote the example passage which I gave. (Compliment is the swiftest cultivator of confession, I suppose!)
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
AnDoctuir
Posts: 11,060
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 6:20:29 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
Yeah, you nicely captured hopelessness there, dude. Is this what Joyce is like, then; just kinda short stories like that?
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 6:44:01 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 3:49:35 AM, Beginner wrote:
I think James Joyce writes the best narratives. I think all of them are written with the purpose of showcasing or bringing about a certain type of emotion rather than actually tell a story (although I can't say this for certain about Finnigan's Wake).
Well anyway, here's what I see.

The peddler streams slowly past the cobblestone street, the sound of his bell rang clear through the air. Dawn had broken more than half a day ago. No other sound was heard. Near the peddler, Edrun could be seen clearly through the window, a face of frustration painted into his head as he angrily contemplated the silence, the golden silence, having been shattered by a mere merchant; a rat.
They are all rats. The earth had been tunneled into unearthly structures. Uf dug holes. They all dug holes. They lived in them, catered them and plastered them with things. It eventually rolled past the fountain. The noise resounded louder, even through the windowpanes. It stopped and stared straight through the windowpane. It grinned and approached the windowpane. Edrun was balked. This was not what he had expected. The peddler turned and resumed his chiming. Why did it do that? The street is bustling with people. Why?
Why is it so dark? Edrun closed his eyes.
Night had fallen less than half a day ago. There was no peddler.

This sample generated exactly the inner process and states that I've come to associate with "dialectical emotivism": the exercise of encoding a tone poem of internal argument with the world, in a world, with the two not always being the selfsame thing for the thing which yet remains the same self. To which one does it belong? This is the very premise of torture; if we have to ask, it would seem to be neither. But who is here to make us ask? It's as though we're thrashing around in suspended animation, like a coin minted with the face of some forgotten, proud emperor descending motionlessly into a greedy, soupy little tin cup. The dull clatter of its landing couldn't compete with the bell, which had long lost its regard for melody. It wasn't here to make music: this was a songless place. There was no peddler.
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 6:46:25 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 6:20:29 PM, AnDoctuir wrote:
Yeah, you nicely captured hopelessness there, dude. Is this what Joyce is like, then; just kinda short stories like that?

Joyce is much more densely cryptic, culturally imbued, and lengthy. He's just...richer.
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
AnDoctuir
Posts: 11,060
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 6:53:24 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 6:44:01 PM, Poetaster wrote:
At 8/8/2013 3:49:35 AM, Beginner wrote:
I think James Joyce writes the best narratives. I think all of them are written with the purpose of showcasing or bringing about a certain type of emotion rather than actually tell a story (although I can't say this for certain about Finnigan's Wake).
Well anyway, here's what I see.

The peddler streams slowly past the cobblestone street, the sound of his bell rang clear through the air. Dawn had broken more than half a day ago. No other sound was heard. Near the peddler, Edrun could be seen clearly through the window, a face of frustration painted into his head as he angrily contemplated the silence, the golden silence, having been shattered by a mere merchant; a rat.
They are all rats. The earth had been tunneled into unearthly structures. Uf dug holes. They all dug holes. They lived in them, catered them and plastered them with things. It eventually rolled past the fountain. The noise resounded louder, even through the windowpanes. It stopped and stared straight through the windowpane. It grinned and approached the windowpane. Edrun was balked. This was not what he had expected. The peddler turned and resumed his chiming. Why did it do that? The street is bustling with people. Why?
Why is it so dark? Edrun closed his eyes.
Night had fallen less than half a day ago. There was no peddler.

This sample generated exactly the inner process and states that I've come to associate with "dialectical emotivism": the exercise of encoding a tone poem of internal argument with the world, in a world, with the two not always being the selfsame thing for the thing which yet remains the same self. To which one does it belong? This is the very premise of torture; if we have to ask, it would seem to be neither. But who is here to make us ask? It's as though we're thrashing around in suspended animation, like a coin minted with the face of some forgotten, proud emperor descending motionlessly into a greedy, soupy little tin cup. The dull clatter of its landing couldn't compete with the bell, which had long lost its regard for melody. It wasn't here to make music: this was a songless place. There was no peddler.

That also was awesome.
Beginner
Posts: 4,292
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 7:02:09 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
Joyce's narratives are localized into one universe, and are cryptic as hell :D
Senpai has noticed you.
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 7:05:13 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 6:53:24 PM, AnDoctuir wrote:
At 8/8/2013 6:44:01 PM, Poetaster wrote:
At 8/8/2013 3:49:35 AM, Beginner wrote:
I think James Joyce writes the best narratives. I think all of them are written with the purpose of showcasing or bringing about a certain type of emotion rather than actually tell a story (although I can't say this for certain about Finnigan's Wake).
Well anyway, here's what I see.

The peddler streams slowly past the cobblestone street, the sound of his bell rang clear through the air. Dawn had broken more than half a day ago. No other sound was heard. Near the peddler, Edrun could be seen clearly through the window, a face of frustration painted into his head as he angrily contemplated the silence, the golden silence, having been shattered by a mere merchant; a rat.
They are all rats. The earth had been tunneled into unearthly structures. Uf dug holes. They all dug holes. They lived in them, catered them and plastered them with things. It eventually rolled past the fountain. The noise resounded louder, even through the windowpanes. It stopped and stared straight through the windowpane. It grinned and approached the windowpane. Edrun was balked. This was not what he had expected. The peddler turned and resumed his chiming. Why did it do that? The street is bustling with people. Why?
Why is it so dark? Edrun closed his eyes.
Night had fallen less than half a day ago. There was no peddler.

This sample generated exactly the inner process and states that I've come to associate with "dialectical emotivism": the exercise of encoding a tone poem of internal argument with the world, in a world, with the two not always being the selfsame thing for the thing which yet remains the same self. To which one does it belong? This is the very premise of torture; if we have to ask, it would seem to be neither. But who is here to make us ask? It's as though we're thrashing around in suspended animation, like a coin minted with the face of some forgotten, proud emperor descending motionlessly into a greedy, soupy little tin cup. The dull clatter of its landing couldn't compete with the bell, which had long lost its regard for melody. It wasn't here to make music: this was a songless place. There was no peddler.

That also was awesome.

I would expect you to have a taste for "stream-like" expression. =)

We are landscapes, not hallways.
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 7:08:44 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 7:02:09 PM, Beginner wrote:
Joyce's narratives are localized into one universe, and are cryptic as hell :D

Jung (who disliked Joyce's work) speculated that Joyce just barely warded off schizophrenia through his writing.
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
Beginner
Posts: 4,292
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 7:09:27 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 6:44:01 PM, Poetaster wrote:
At 8/8/2013 3:49:35 AM, Beginner wrote:
I think James Joyce writes the best narratives. I think all of them are written with the purpose of showcasing or bringing about a certain type of emotion rather than actually tell a story (although I can't say this for certain about Finnigan's Wake).
Well anyway, here's what I see.

The peddler streams slowly past the cobblestone street, the sound of his bell rang clear through the air. Dawn had broken more than half a day ago. No other sound was heard. Near the peddler, Edrun could be seen clearly through the window, a face of frustration painted into his head as he angrily contemplated the silence, the golden silence, having been shattered by a mere merchant; a rat.
They are all rats. The earth had been tunneled into unearthly structures. Uf dug holes. They all dug holes. They lived in them, catered them and plastered them with things. It eventually rolled past the fountain. The noise resounded louder, even through the windowpanes. It stopped and stared straight through the windowpane. It grinned and approached the windowpane. Edrun was balked. This was not what he had expected. The peddler turned and resumed his chiming. Why did it do that? The street is bustling with people. Why?
Why is it so dark? Edrun closed his eyes.
Night had fallen less than half a day ago. There was no peddler.

This sample generated exactly the inner process and states that I've come to associate with "dialectical emotivism": the exercise of encoding a tone poem of internal argument with the world, in a world, with the two not always being the selfsame thing for the thing which yet remains the same self. To which one does it belong? This is the very premise of torture; if we have to ask, it would seem to be neither. But who is here to make us ask? It's as though we're thrashing around in suspended animation, like a coin minted with the face of some forgotten, proud emperor descending motionlessly into a greedy, soupy little tin cup. The dull clatter of its landing couldn't compete with the bell, which had long lost its regard for melody. It wasn't here to make music: this was a songless place. There was no peddler.

^Now this is a lot like Joyce. Two sentences and over fifty words cryptically describing a coin descending into a tin cup. Is it or is it not a peddler? If I had to ask, it would seem to be neither. A beggar? Perhaps. It's this type of literary mind-game that makes many of Joyce's narratives so uniquely Joyce. :D
Senpai has noticed you.
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 7:14:41 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 7:09:27 PM, Beginner wrote:
At 8/8/2013 6:44:01 PM, Poetaster wrote:
At 8/8/2013 3:49:35 AM, Beginner wrote:
I think James Joyce writes the best narratives. I think all of them are written with the purpose of showcasing or bringing about a certain type of emotion rather than actually tell a story (although I can't say this for certain about Finnigan's Wake).
Well anyway, here's what I see.

The peddler streams slowly past the cobblestone street, the sound of his bell rang clear through the air. Dawn had broken more than half a day ago. No other sound was heard. Near the peddler, Edrun could be seen clearly through the window, a face of frustration painted into his head as he angrily contemplated the silence, the golden silence, having been shattered by a mere merchant; a rat.
They are all rats. The earth had been tunneled into unearthly structures. Uf dug holes. They all dug holes. They lived in them, catered them and plastered them with things. It eventually rolled past the fountain. The noise resounded louder, even through the windowpanes. It stopped and stared straight through the windowpane. It grinned and approached the windowpane. Edrun was balked. This was not what he had expected. The peddler turned and resumed his chiming. Why did it do that? The street is bustling with people. Why?
Why is it so dark? Edrun closed his eyes.
Night had fallen less than half a day ago. There was no peddler.

This sample generated exactly the inner process and states that I've come to associate with "dialectical emotivism": the exercise of encoding a tone poem of internal argument with the world, in a world, with the two not always being the selfsame thing for the thing which yet remains the same self. To which one does it belong? This is the very premise of torture; if we have to ask, it would seem to be neither. But who is here to make us ask? It's as though we're thrashing around in suspended animation, like a coin minted with the face of some forgotten, proud emperor descending motionlessly into a greedy, soupy little tin cup. The dull clatter of its landing couldn't compete with the bell, which had long lost its regard for melody. It wasn't here to make music: this was a songless place. There was no peddler.

^Now this is a lot like Joyce. Two sentences and over fifty words cryptically describing a coin descending into a tin cup. Is it or is it not a peddler? If I had to ask, it would seem to be neither. A beggar? Perhaps. It's this type of literary mind-game that makes many of Joyce's narratives so uniquely Joyce. :D

I'm also left wondering: if silence is the prize, what is the consolation?
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 7:24:43 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
I suppose that to ask is to break the silence.
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 8:30:10 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 7:27:53 PM, AnDoctuir wrote:
lol, give me something to read please. Ulysses?

Yes, all of Joyce's work is great (I prefer his novels).

Now, this may seem like an unusual recommendation at first, but there's an odd and old tract called The Anatomy of Melancholy which meditates on every aspect of grief and despair, and, in its analysis, simulates the very thing it is analyzing in the act of expression (a sort of conceptual onomatopoeia, if you will). It therefore achieves a certain quality of dialectical emotivism at some points. It also has some surprisingly good humor; here's an excerpt:

"To the Reader at Leisure:

Whoever you may be, I warn against rashly defaming the author of this work, or caviling in jest against him...For, should Democritus Junior prove to be what he professes, even a kinsman of his older namesake, or ever be so little of the same kidney, it is all over with you: he will become both accuser and judge of you in your spleen, will dissipate you in jests, pulverize you into salt, and sacrifice you, I can promise you, to the God of Mirth."

In contrast to this weird and bombastic admonition, he then goes on to interrogate such commonplace things as, "Why doth one man's yawning make another yawn?"

He also presents a hilarious opinion on tobacco:
"Tobacco, divine, rare, superexcellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all the panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher's stones, a sovereign remedy to all diseases. A good vomit, a virtuous herb, if it be taken well and opportunely; but as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, it becomes a plague, a mischief, a violent purger of goods, lands, health: hellish, devilish and damned tobacco, the ruin and overthrow of body and soul."

The total vacillation of opinion here also captures internal mental conflict quite well.
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 9:00:13 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 8:53:06 PM, AnDoctuir wrote:
Yeah, that definitely sounds like my kind of thing, lol. Thanks man.

I had a hunch!
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 9:25:14 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 7:27:53 PM, AnDoctuir wrote:
lol, give me something to read please. Ulysses?

Proust's In Search of Lost Time is also superb in these respects (it uses a fractured chronology and scattered telling, recreating exteriorly the inner forms of distressed reminiscence and anxious reflection). Some will call it the best novel of all time.
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
DetectableNinja
Posts: 6,043
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 9:27:18 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
Finnegans Wake is a hell of a drug.
Think'st thou heaven is such a glorious thing?
I tell thee, 'tis not half so fair as thou
Or any man that breathes on earth.

- Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 9:42:27 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 9:27:18 PM, DetectableNinja wrote:
Finnegans Wake is a hell of a drug.

It's like a literary incarnation of semantic satiation, the eerie effect created by repeating a word several times aloud: the uncanny feeling doesn't only consist of recognizing the unmeaning of the word, I think, but of the surprising sense that it never meant anything to begin with.

Finnegans Wake makes me somehow doubt, not whether Joyce is speaking English, but whether anyone has ever spoken English at all.
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker
Poetaster
Posts: 587
Add as Friend
Challenge to a Debate
Send a Message
8/8/2013 10:04:36 PM
Posted: 3 years ago
At 8/8/2013 9:41:52 PM, FREEDO wrote:
Like dis?


Almost not inexactly at all slightly unlike that.
"The book you are looking for hasn't been written yet. What you are looking for you are going to have to find yourself, it's not going to be in a book..." -Sidewalker