In the last year I think I stopped thinking of myself as a writer (always a very uncomfortable fit for me... it’s always been mostly an instrumental behavior for thinking and self-entertainment for me). I think I sometimes write well, but am not primarily a Writer.
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This is not death of the author in Barthes sense, as the critical decision to ignore authorial context and intentions. This is the drowning of the author, in too much context to meaningfully situate work in. Failure by pale-blue-dotting.
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It’s too much work to make a work work. Except as a mechanical reproduction of genre norms. And increasingly everything belongs in a genre or micro genre. Genrefication of all work. Textual commoditization. Endgame of words.
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Walter Benjamin: “All great works of literature found a genre or dissolve one.”
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End of conversation
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in this day and age, reading a verbose tome to acquire one inevitably obsolete perspective is worth less than watching a bunch of interviews with the author... yields broader and more current/relevant perspectives with less time spent...
Thanks. Twitter will use this to make your timeline better. UndoUndo
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