Sunday, November 18, 2007

The Fictive Universe of Realist Narrative Belies Reality

And there is my Sunday Salon theme.

If I could sing it would be a song. A theme song, for the rain it raineth every day. See what Josipovici has to say on exactly this in "The Opinion of Pythagoras (which is about Twelfth Night, and Pythagoras only in passing, as soul from one body to another).

Let me say it again (Should every song not have a chorus?)

The Fictive universe of realist Narrative Fiction Belies Reality. But no, it does more than that.

It lies.

And makes us lie with it, and there's the sin.

After an exchange (imagined on my part, as Mr. Tata has locked his comments door and hid the key), with James Tata: do read his essay on formalist and realist (what Mark Thwaite calls Establishment Realist Fiction) fiction in Ten Parts
HERE. You'll have to scroll down, as you can't link individual posts on this blog, thus the prophecy will be fulfilled, Last shall be First!

My question/sidesways reply/pre- Sunday Salon thought will be found

What Josipovici added was this thought of the closed universe of Realist Narrative, the Unified Fictive Universe to which all alike belong, and which, as said above, belies human reality as experienced anywhere but within those Narratives concocted to support Belief (as you might guess, this would include those of Religion, and the props and pulleys of dogma and theology meant, through the offices of Homily and Good Counsel, to be applied to the open wounds of unassimilable experience, and thus, close it--covered no doubt with tapestry, gown and thick makeup to hide the Stitches on the monster's brow).

Only when we acknowledge the play are we allowed to touch the Real.

Authors of Realist Narratives want us to love the lie.

And there's my thought, this gloomy November Sunday Morn. Do with it as you will.

... I feel rather out of place here. I look around, people sipping coffee or tea from china cups with appliqués of roses vaguely pink, stroking their purring cats, a bit of rain on the window pain, reading of detectives in fantasy land while I thrash about in my cold room, rubbing my hands to keep my fingers warm enough to flex and type, gnashing my teeth at the obscene semblances of reality peddled by publishers in high heels and mini skirts in back rooms of Book Super Stores...

... hell, somebody's gotta do it


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