ahhh, life...
I used to think I thought about books a lot. Turns out, shelving them four or five hours a day for a couple weeks compels a lot more scrutiny of the book as an object. All those titles and authors flying by, plot descriptions on the backside (or else quotes from other writers) - spine after spine, sheer quantity: the vast number of fellows must be the great equalizer. Standing amid all these tomes, and bound items are such sacred objects, I get the feeling that even if I wanted to add to these piles and piles of books cycling on & off shelves ceaselessly, it would be a criminal waste of space & effort. Everybody wants to leave their mark on the world, and books, the most tangible way to do so, seem to be also the most common. My most frequent wish is for a match.
Except my brain then says "No wait, please wait," and rationalizes some criteria for me. First, reading books is not necessarily different from watching tv. For example, the (good) show Firefly vs. the (actual) Star Trek meets the X-Men novel. Almost 300 pages. So by and large the majority of books printed are trash, albeit trash we sell faster than anything of substance. Literacy is vital to democracy, of course, but in the sense of the great eventual goal of self-government and autonomy, mind-numbing items like the NASCAR romance novels serve only to quiet the imagination.
Which brings me to criterion 2, the purpose & usage of the human imagination. That may sound a little JimHenson-y, but there's truth in the chaotic backalleys of the mind. Experientially, we are dual: conscious & unconscious. In mind, right now, we have little more than immediate experience; everything else is "forgotten." The purpose of art is (yeah, arguably) to dredge the straits of our being, make the unconscious conscious, effect anamnesis - and the mechanism of this is imagination. Neal Stephenson writes about a mafia-run pizza business, Tolkien writes about the scourging of the shire, Dante writes about Odysseus in Hell, and with each we're one step closer to unity. I mean, right? That's not too much to ask, is it? I won't be stingy with my definition of art if people will just try, dammit.
Anyway, that's all I got for now. Theory as survival instinct. Time for lunch.
Except my brain then says "No wait, please wait," and rationalizes some criteria for me. First, reading books is not necessarily different from watching tv. For example, the (good) show Firefly vs. the (actual) Star Trek meets the X-Men novel. Almost 300 pages. So by and large the majority of books printed are trash, albeit trash we sell faster than anything of substance. Literacy is vital to democracy, of course, but in the sense of the great eventual goal of self-government and autonomy, mind-numbing items like the NASCAR romance novels serve only to quiet the imagination.
Which brings me to criterion 2, the purpose & usage of the human imagination. That may sound a little JimHenson-y, but there's truth in the chaotic backalleys of the mind. Experientially, we are dual: conscious & unconscious. In mind, right now, we have little more than immediate experience; everything else is "forgotten." The purpose of art is (yeah, arguably) to dredge the straits of our being, make the unconscious conscious, effect anamnesis - and the mechanism of this is imagination. Neal Stephenson writes about a mafia-run pizza business, Tolkien writes about the scourging of the shire, Dante writes about Odysseus in Hell, and with each we're one step closer to unity. I mean, right? That's not too much to ask, is it? I won't be stingy with my definition of art if people will just try, dammit.
Anyway, that's all I got for now. Theory as survival instinct. Time for lunch.
posted by josh p at 9:31 AM
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