Playing to the Gallery, Grayson Perry

    So art has become this incredibly baggy idea. When I think of the sort of bag that art might be, it's one of those very cheap dustbin liners--the ones that, when you drag them out of the dustbin and you're walking towards the front door, you're praying that all the rubbish won't spill out all over the hall carpet. That's what kind of bag art is. It's become this incredibly permeable, translucent, fuzzy bag.

V., Thomas Pynchon

    Perhaps they may have felt like the last two gods--the last inhabitants--of a watery earth; or perhaps--but it would be unfair to infer.

lil, flagamuffin, _refugee_


AnSionnachRua:

"[...] If in this craze for amusement Albertine might be said to echo something of the old original Gilberte, that is because a certain similarity exists, between all the women we love, a similarity that is due to the fixity of our own temperament, which it is that chooses them, eliminating all those who would not be at once our opposite and our complement, fitted that is to say to gratify our senses and wring our heart. They are, these women, a product of our temperament, an image inversely projected, a negative of our sensibility. So that a novelist might, in relating the life of his hero, describe his successive love-affairs in almost exactly similar terms, and thereby give the impression not that he was repeating himself but that he was creating, since an artificial novelty is never so effective as a repetition that manages to reveal a fresh truth."

- Marcel Proust, La recherche du temps perdu, translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff.


posted by demure: 969 days ago