Spontaneous Overflow of Powerful Feelings
Or so Wordsworth said about poetry. Poetry is a recollection of powerful feelings. Yet spontaneously overflowing. Quite a paradox. Calm recollection of feelings and somehow a genius retains the power that was once there. Yet I say, feelings powerful are best ridden and written at the head of the crest, the very acme of the storm's uprising crawl rushing towaed the shore. It engulfs cities, swamps civilizations, and drowns the steeple of a church.
Life seen through a telescope. I have never ridden the crest of wrathful wave; I have never seen a child's hand hacked off by a machete; I have never seen the misery of a dying tree. Life has been distilled for me. drip by drip. the very fine specimens of life encript'd. Images of films, or words, or sickeningly numerous volumes of books that obssess me. Artificial life that is, my friends. The joy of a sea voyage from La France to England; perfectly imitated in a cabin built on land, the scent of salt-soaked ropes and achors, clock-work fish that swim betwix wooden planks and panelled walls, filled with salty water, the very essence of a sea voyage is there and why bother paying for a ticket to embark on an actual voyage? Very well said there Monsieur Huysmans. Powerful feelings rendered in words. Adjectives, adverbs, pronouns, nouns, proper nouns, relative clauses and ellipses. Why bother sweating over the nerve wrecking task of packing and unpacking when you can have it all in a well built cabin that imitates a sea voyage? Why bother paying for a hooker and risking diseases and affections towards a paid-for object of sex when you can have it all with a pirated DVD, some spit and body oil? Artificial life, my friend. Life is most beautiful when resurrected fomr sheer blunt force of imagination.
But Art is always imperfect because it is man-made. a paradox isn't it? A well-said phrase about jealousy cannot evoke the very essence of jealousy. the Wrath. The Basic Instinct of Life itself. The warmth of freshly spilt blood pouring from a gaping hole; the coarseness of plastic handle of a cheap imitation Japanese sword; the images of a man making love to your beloved; the prosaic scent of a standardized office toilet, of bleach and perfume made out of plastic flowers... Tell me Wordsworth: can you render these feelings? Can you put it into words how it feels to taste your enemy's blood? Can you transform with your alchemy into words the scent of a woman who is yearning for sex because her husband is frigid like a wooden plank? Can you, Mr. Wordsworth? Can you juxtapose in words the swooning sensations evoked by the scent of your beloved's hair and the infernal agony at the sight of your beloved in someone else's arms? Can you, Mr. Wordsworth? Can you perchance tell me how it feels to be chained at the bottom of a well for life?
Let me tell you Monsieur Wordsworth. Let me tell you this. Your words aren't worth a dime. Can your words tell me what it feels like to be breathing and inhaling poisonous fumes of life? Feelings are a curse. An eternal torture it is to be alive. Can you tell me how it feels the surge of adrenaline when your beloved looks you in the eyes and lies? Can you tell me how it feels when suspicions eat you up alive? Can you tell me how it feels when paranoia splits your mind in pieces? Can you tell me how it feels when Salome was dancing naked to King Hesod just to kiss my lips on a severed head, handed over neatly on a silver platter? Can you tell me how it feels to be bleeding through iron-forged mannacles at the bottom of a well?
Monsieur, you had taken your Grand Tour to see the world when you were 15. When I was 15 I was sweating over textbooks for exams written by thugs who couldn't get a proper job because of sheer incompetence. Does that make me a fool, Mr. Poet?
Let me tell you, Monsieur Wordsworth. Let me tell you this. Humans exist on many levels. Some are gods, some are mediocres, some are dogs. If you can transform the agony onto paper the dog who strives to be a saint, I give you my life. I hand my head over to you, Salome, on a silver platter.
Life seen through a telescope. I have never ridden the crest of wrathful wave; I have never seen a child's hand hacked off by a machete; I have never seen the misery of a dying tree. Life has been distilled for me. drip by drip. the very fine specimens of life encript'd. Images of films, or words, or sickeningly numerous volumes of books that obssess me. Artificial life that is, my friends. The joy of a sea voyage from La France to England; perfectly imitated in a cabin built on land, the scent of salt-soaked ropes and achors, clock-work fish that swim betwix wooden planks and panelled walls, filled with salty water, the very essence of a sea voyage is there and why bother paying for a ticket to embark on an actual voyage? Very well said there Monsieur Huysmans. Powerful feelings rendered in words. Adjectives, adverbs, pronouns, nouns, proper nouns, relative clauses and ellipses. Why bother sweating over the nerve wrecking task of packing and unpacking when you can have it all in a well built cabin that imitates a sea voyage? Why bother paying for a hooker and risking diseases and affections towards a paid-for object of sex when you can have it all with a pirated DVD, some spit and body oil? Artificial life, my friend. Life is most beautiful when resurrected fomr sheer blunt force of imagination.
But Art is always imperfect because it is man-made. a paradox isn't it? A well-said phrase about jealousy cannot evoke the very essence of jealousy. the Wrath. The Basic Instinct of Life itself. The warmth of freshly spilt blood pouring from a gaping hole; the coarseness of plastic handle of a cheap imitation Japanese sword; the images of a man making love to your beloved; the prosaic scent of a standardized office toilet, of bleach and perfume made out of plastic flowers... Tell me Wordsworth: can you render these feelings? Can you put it into words how it feels to taste your enemy's blood? Can you transform with your alchemy into words the scent of a woman who is yearning for sex because her husband is frigid like a wooden plank? Can you, Mr. Wordsworth? Can you juxtapose in words the swooning sensations evoked by the scent of your beloved's hair and the infernal agony at the sight of your beloved in someone else's arms? Can you, Mr. Wordsworth? Can you perchance tell me how it feels to be chained at the bottom of a well for life?
Let me tell you Monsieur Wordsworth. Let me tell you this. Your words aren't worth a dime. Can your words tell me what it feels like to be breathing and inhaling poisonous fumes of life? Feelings are a curse. An eternal torture it is to be alive. Can you tell me how it feels the surge of adrenaline when your beloved looks you in the eyes and lies? Can you tell me how it feels when suspicions eat you up alive? Can you tell me how it feels when paranoia splits your mind in pieces? Can you tell me how it feels when Salome was dancing naked to King Hesod just to kiss my lips on a severed head, handed over neatly on a silver platter? Can you tell me how it feels to be bleeding through iron-forged mannacles at the bottom of a well?
Monsieur, you had taken your Grand Tour to see the world when you were 15. When I was 15 I was sweating over textbooks for exams written by thugs who couldn't get a proper job because of sheer incompetence. Does that make me a fool, Mr. Poet?
Let me tell you, Monsieur Wordsworth. Let me tell you this. Humans exist on many levels. Some are gods, some are mediocres, some are dogs. If you can transform the agony onto paper the dog who strives to be a saint, I give you my life. I hand my head over to you, Salome, on a silver platter.
posted by JK Huysmans at 12:29 上午
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