strauss's "morgen" teaches exactly how far a person can go into specific and borrowed ecstasy. i've never been there, i've never seen the place or even someplace like it, and yet i've got this exact knowledge of the place it takes place in, and the light. were it a painting it'd be of a woman in a white hat against a white townscape far away, with the sea in her veil, every detail so intimately portrayed that one doesn't need to see her eyes, which are shadowed by the hat, to know what they look like, what they portray--whose they are. one of those moments forster attempts to attain when he says things like "freddy got wet," and what he means is "they were all so overjoyed to be running around and in love that the fact that freddy got wet needs no exposition because it's the simple pure beingness of it, the crowning physicality of this multifaceted moment which in reality when it's taking place is perfectly simple, perfectly natural," and fails because you know what he's getting at and you say, "oh, forster, if only you weren't so proud of yourself for discovering your technique of writing as you are." the self-awareness just freaking kills it for me--but i love maurice. especially the first three-fourths.
why the hell should these things matter? i don't know; i don't know. is it because i'm lonely? is it too much northern exposure?
there's a faith--outmoded, but true--in some suffixes. that in "personhood," for instance, as well as "actualization." this was language that was on the move. it was going somewhere and changing something.
an accomplished cynic is one who works at it. someone wrote a book of sonnets, one sonnet per day, to a loved one--it was okay that they weren't good because she was a lesbian. and they probably were good. but that was the class in which i wrote my notes backward to save my brain from crawling out my ear and making a break for it. hence everything was tainted by association, even creely. he was lost in the furor over duncan, who i hate with a blinding and overwhelming fury. leaving in misspellings or searching them out is not proof of the mutability of language, the mystical in the everyday, or the multiplicity and sometimes the overriding inevitability of communication. it is an overabundance of typos, and unendurable self-satisfaction. for god's sake, the guy's overweening metaphor had to do with a field. maybe i just don't appreciate fields. maybe somebody touched my no-no spot in one once and ever since their incredible thisness has been soured, cancelled in my panicked psyche by the attempt to forget... or maybe it's a stupid metaphor. and the thing is that he returns to it a lot. "often i am permitted to return to a field," he says, explicitly emphasising the whole problem. possibly it was a meadow. or something. also the fact that it was a blank field. there wasn't even anything in it. except some fairies making rings and pursuing their fairy rituals. which furniture sounds to me like what a male madeleyn basset would put into his field had he a metaphorical one. it just kills me. this is apparently "sara expounds on the fact that she hates gay authors mostly because she can" day.
i don't know what's wrong with me. it's like verbal diahrrea, but it's written, and written in a public space. the below is a largeish picture of a catamaran.