Wtf was he trying to say, Yea Forums?

Not him, but I hate every single "artist" who had a hand in degenerating poetry to the state it is in nowadays.

I mean, Rimbaud did somewhat play with freeform poetry, but he was a parnasian guy trough an trough. But, I guess I somewhat agree with you, altrough the Modernists are pretty much my favorite writers.

Do you have a bone to pick with specifics?

Literally nothing. Read the work of Rene Etiemble and Rimbaud's personal letters. Rimbaud admits to not knowing what his poetry was about and making it up all along to impress pseud midwits and he quit when he got tired of it.

>Do you have a bone to pick with specifics?

With the decadents and the symbolists as a movement, yes.

I can't hate the modernists, they never stood a chance to begin with, since things were already degenerated by the time they entered the age where they started to gather influences and inspirations for their future works.

I suppose it was unavoidable, but with all these "iconoclasts", who will build new icons in place of the destroyed ones? It became obvious that a cultural landscape without icons just results in the chaotic mess that was the postmodern movement.

Do you also get this creeping melancholy wherever reading symbolist literature? I feel like it could have been so much more.

And about postmodernists, I can undestand the movement as a tentative of creating literature that resonates with the moment, but they are really on the wrong side of the battlefield when it comes to literature as an art form. The Modernist struggle for the reconstruction of a symbol was a much more noble one. But I suppose that simply giving up and embracing anomy was easier, and so, we ended up with the current postmodernist movement.

Also, postmodernists commit the sin of vacuous realism, but I suppose that unavodaible within their way of thought.

>Do you also get this creeping melancholy wherever reading symbolist literature?

Kind of... it feels like the funeral dirge of western literature... we transgressed every boundary, destroyed every icon, now what? All that's left is to tear ourselves apart.

Yea Forums doesn't take well to "le wrong generation" people, but I do lament the fact that I had to be born in such an artistically dead age. It's like being born as a Roman citizen in the middle of the 5th century... what are you supposed to do? The inevitable failure of the modernists and the subsequent domination of the postmodernists ensured that no movement in the vein of the modernists could ever get another shot at rebuilding the artistic landscape in the future. Carthage is destroyed and its earth has been thoroughly salted for good measure afterwards, never to bear fruit again.

I really do think that there are way more people with our (or a similar line of thought) out there, but, I do think that the victory of Postmodernists has some incredibly serious consequences, the end of the canon, has its sacrifices: No more Names. There will be no more immortality of art, no more elevation of aesthetics above the world, no more respite from reality. Without the canon, with the postmodernists ascendant, the world will be freed of those influences and those ancient narratives and orders, but at the price of oblivion. Postmodernist philosophers and writers clearly accepted this, and do not mince words about it. This tracks with the more intense literary elements of postmodernism; see "Literature and The Right for Death".

But, in short, there are more like us out there, and birds of a feather often stick together, so we might see some vanguards forming, or we might just gather around a café and observe the bleeding sun, hoping one day it might stop doing so.

I wish I had enough optimism in me to become an Übermensch and build new values in place of the wasteland that is before me, but unfortunately I feel western civilization as a whole is winding down. I mentioned in another thread how the 21st century feels like the 5th all over again from the perspective of Rome... I do hope that I will be proven wrong, but I feel like the chances of that happening is very slim.

Rome fell, and so will we. May we prove to be a fertile ground for the coming cycle. Even so, I don't want to go down without a fight. I'm pessimistic, but not to the point of being a cuckold and letting things just happen to me and my surroundings.

There's tension in the air, and it feels as if it's rising ever higher all the time. How long until the string snaps? God only knows...

Speaking from personal experience, user, I only had the experience of creating values of my own once I had fallen so deep into anomie that I retreated into isolation for over a year. It sounds contraditory, and it indeed is, that for the creation of a new personal symbol we have to accept the death of the symbols of old (in this case of the literaly canon), but (to me at least) it was the only way out of anomie, and I felt much happier, even if have my pangs of melancholy since then. As it stands, meaning is a jumper you have to knit yourself, just like as big N. intended.

To quote a certain chinese cartoon, the fate of destruction is also the joy of rebirth. But how are we supposed to assist in the rebirth? Will there even be a mother to give birth? Is the mother even capable of birth? What if she gives birth to a stillborn? Will we even be there to assist? What if she gives birth to a demon? What if the clinic gets burned down in the meanwhile? The more I think about it the less certain I get. Even so, striving towards a future formed by our will is all that's left to do. What other choice is left besides the cuckoldry that is nihilism, watching your civilization be fucked to death as you watch it all without taking action? I know I'm being overly dramatic here, but as time passes the more apparent these things become.

In my vision, there will be no such thing as a great savior, birth, conqueror or demon, as you put it, but just as the current state we are in took the work of millions troughout generations, so will the recreation of a symbol take the work of millions, the difference is that for the creation of aesthetical/literaly symbols we have the backing of thousands of dead men and women who were looking for the creation of the same symbol we speak of today. It's definetelly an uphill battle, and we must have in mind that an action which changes is necessarily an action which destroys. But a great change requires a destruction of savage extent.

Perhaps the world will simply lay the groundwork of destruction for us. I know well it laid it for me, and I am thankful for the fact that I was able to create my own symbols amidst the destruction of the world. Perhaps that's one of it's mercies.

"Because I found modern life absolutely unacceptable, I grew increasingly hopeless until, at the age of 24, I arrived at a kind of crisis: I felt so miserable that I didn’t care whether I lived or died. But when I reached that point, a sudden change took place: I realized that if I didn’t care whether I lived or died, then I didn’t need to fear the consequences of anything I might do. Therefore I could do anything I wanted. I was free! That was the great turning-point in my life because it was then that I acquired courage, which has remained with me ever since."

who wrote this?

*with Verlaine

Unabomber - Letter to a Turkish Anarquist.

Verlaine

His poetry is marvelous. I'm afraid it's you who lack aesthetic sensibilities.

I

On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans.
- Un beau soir, foin des bocks et de la limonade,
Des cafés tapageurs aux lustres éclatants !
- On va sous les tilleuls verts de la promenade.

Les tilleuls sentent bon dans les bons soirs de juin !
L'air est parfois si doux, qu'on ferme la paupière ;
Le vent chargé de bruits - la ville n'est pas loin -
A des parfums de vigne et des parfums de bière...

II

- Voilà qu'on aperçoit un tout petit chiffon
D'azur sombre, encadré d'une petite branche,
Piqué d'une mauvaise étoile, qui se fond
Avec de doux frissons, petite et toute blanche...

Nuit de juin ! Dix-sept ans ! - On se laisse griser.
La sève est du champagne et vous monte à la tête...
On divague ; on se sent aux lèvres un baiser
Qui palpite là, comme une petite bête...

III

Le coeur fou robinsonne à travers les romans,
- Lorsque, dans la clarté d'un pâle réverbère,
Passe une demoiselle aux petits airs charmants,
Sous l'ombre du faux col effrayant de son père...

Et, comme elle vous trouve immensément naïf,
Tout en faisant trotter ses petites bottines,
Elle se tourne, alerte et d'un mouvement vif...
- Sur vos lèvres alors meurent les cavatines...

IV

Vous êtes amoureux. Loué jusqu'au mois d'août.
Vous êtes amoureux. - Vos sonnets La font rire.
Tous vos amis s'en vont, vous êtes mauvais goût.
- Puis l'adorée, un soir, a daigné vous écrire !...

- Ce soir-là..., - vous rentrez aux cafés éclatants,
Vous demandez des bocks ou de la limonade...
- On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans
Et qu'on a des tilleuls verts sur la promenade.

>Nuit de juin ! Dix-sept ans !
tfw

One thing one has to remember is that time acts as a filter through which the braindead rupi kaurs of this age will be caught inside and not remembered in the long run.
In 50 years there will probably be a poet who has died in some shack in the woods who made the greatest poetry of our age, who you didnt even know about right now.

ok il est talentueux mais dieux que c'est chiant
on peut sentir un certain autisme à s'émerveiller pour rien comme un gosse

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A fine colloquy, anons. What in particular brought ye to this perspective?

Honestly? Based.

you're just angry that you can't distinguish between good new poetry and dilettantism

Bump.

Fine post. We need some kind of society of talents from our generation. Where are you from?