Is there any prose which is experimenting on the edge of the realm in which grand unreal symbols are allowed to be? I have never read a novel which actually does what I, perhaps pretentiously, want it to. Here are some examples of where it comes close:
- Homeric underworld
- Satanic elements of the Christian mythologies
- Blake's "ghost of a flea"
- Poe, sort of. Not really.
- Walhalla
- Faust
- Dunsany
- Talking cats in Kater Murr
- Monster & Dream sequences in Faerie Queene
- Miéville
Love this painting.
Rant
>experimenting on the edge of the realm in which grand unreal symbols are allowed to be
Can you explain what you mean a little more?
If we imagine two converging spheres in a venn diagram (the one reality and the other unreality) and we imagine the space at which they spectre-like converge as an area between the two, what kind of prose could possibly descrtibe this area? In Aegyptian mythopoeia, we have a sudden diffraction of man and beast and a re-realisation of the anthropoid. In the Djinn of the Abrahamic mythologies we have flame-born whisperers: personified sub-matter. In Blake we anthropoid insects. Walhalla has men made giant with rage and size. Dunsany has snoring gods with featureless existences. Cats begin to speak. Motorcycles morph in to Balthusian Nausikaas. But what if we bring this even further? What if we cut out the variables which are based on reality? What if we experience the fringe between the convergence and unreality itself: a grand mass of chaotic symbologies that mean endless infinities.
Antonin Artaud
René Daumal
Lovecraft
Amy Ireland
my diary desu
Marvel Cinematic Universe
my man right here
Isn't this surrealism? Or what it was trying to do?
How It Is by Beckett perhaps.
>It would be useless to describe the playing of Erich Zann on that dreadful night. It was more horrible than anything I had ever overheard, because I could now see the expression of his face, and could realise that this time the motive was stark fear. He was trying to make a noise; to ward something off or drown something out—what, I could not imagine, awesome though I felt it must be. The playing grew fantastic, delirious, and hysterical, yet kept to the last the qualities of supreme genius which I knew this strange old man possessed. I recognised the air—it was a wild Hungarian dance popular in the theatres, and I reflected for a moment that this was the first time I had ever heard Zann play the work of another composer.
>Louder and louder, wilder and wilder, mounted the shrieking and whining of that desperate viol. The player was dripping with an uncanny perspiration and twisted like a monkey, always looking frantically at the curtained window. In his frenzied strains I could almost see shadowy satyrs and Bacchanals dancing and whirling insanely through seething abysses of clouds and smoke and lightning. And then I thought I heard a shriller, steadier note that was not from the viol; a calm, deliberate, purposeful, mocking note from far away in the west.
Borges, Pessoa, Burroughs
"The focus of my work is the elaboration of a coherent and compelling model of non-representational poetic production — thought through temporality and theorised as 'xenopoetics' — that operates across and in excess of the human, and is thereby capable of accommodating increasingly significant non-human modes of production."
Seems interesting, although I amn't bothered to get my hands on a book by her.
oh and unironically the thing you are looking for is The Elder Scrolls lore from about 2004-2012.
This.
Only a subcunt horrorpoetics can recapitalise the postnoumenal exchange policy of the grand unreal symbologimatrix.
sounds a lot like Nick Land doesn't it. even the xeno prefix
meant to reply to
Nick Land's fiction - Phyl-Undhu and Chasm.
love it
You should.
She's great.
The cunt is a headless, wordless mouth. It’s the fuck in the forest overwritten by the narcotic platitude of the nightingale’s song in Jean Renoir’s Partie de campagne. It’s the black roots that squirm beneath the innocuous flower Mallarmé designates as the emissary of his ‘pure notion.’ The cunt is a ditch with an upturned car in it. The cunt fucks you up. First thing it says to you when you come out of it is ‘prepare yourself for death,’ but it doesn’t speak, it secretes. Its language is equivalent to the desecration of language—each emission betrays the logical speech of its cephalic double up top—that mouth in the head that will not shut up, that pontificates, instructs, and moralises ceaselessly. Against the logorrhoeic tyranny of the word, CUNT = DIGIT = ALGORITHM (AQ 94;13). A rotten sun, eater of eyes, extravagant zero, the night. Below all, the cunt is the abyss. Dangerous and open—that abyss that makes you want it against the other mouth’s better judgement.
it's well written but it's wrong
retard
Love this comment.
It's incredibly well written and exceedingly right and right.
You're wrong.
Do you know the name?
It's not right at all, it's performative semi-psychosis. You can pretend that's truth if you want I guess.
Bataille
French Window at Collioure, 1914. Musée National d'Art Moderne, Paris
Henri Matisse
Thanks, user
So no-one is going to address the fact that this guy sees two exact opposites as a Venn-diagram with overlap instead of as mutually exclusive? Not to mention that first it's about the area of convergence, but then the variables based on reality have to be cut out (meaning we are fully in the sphere of unreality)? I can't make any sense of this explanation. Do you just want fiction?
Anyway read Calvino's Cosmicomics
Literal fiction, yes. And by that I mean we are at the very edge of the convergence. We have moved on from whispering flames to a realm of unreal symbologies that correspond to (not even) material phenomena like flame or what have you.
Love this love
PKD ?
Slowpilled and teleotarded
that's an amazing image
I understand perfectly and have inhabited the mindset you think is so revelatory. It's wrong.
I'm an artist.
nope
bump
Hm, yes. I see...
you're wrong
>it's performative semi-psychosis.
Sums it up well