W. Kandinsky: "There are no 'musts' in art." T.S. Eliot: "There is no freedom in art." Dostoievski character, after the ancient Middle East epigram: "Everything is permitted." (R-rated weblog. Since one has been advised there is no Literature anymore, or even literature, only writing, one proceeds on the premise that this weblog qualifies as not-meaningless, since it is, or appears to be, a form of "writing." Image: Banksy.)
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
I gave William Bronk one last try and after reading for fifteen or twenty minutes tossed the book into midair and listened to it hit the carpet. Back to work on the screenplay. I'm content to be a writer of B movies. That may be all I have in me. I glanced through an issue of Poetry yesterday and read a long review of a new collection of poems by a poet marked by melancholia, and it made me feel glad I'm not committed to that world. And we saw There Will Be Blood which is good but for the revolting horrible culture of death ending; it's two and a half hours of closeups of Daniel Day-Lewis as the stereotypical "ruthless businessman," a feast of a 12-foot tall face that is deeply hypnotizing.
Posted by Richard McNally at 1:31 AM
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