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.)
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Danger of Sausage
Humor that almost breaks one's heart, and then makes one feel somewhat disgusted with oneself for having laughed, this is what Bernhard specializes in, as in Frost, where one finds out, halfway through the work, that the knacker has been supplying the landlady of the inn where the narrator, a young medical intern, and his day-time companion (the nearly crazed painter) are residing, with dead dogs for use in the kitchen, yes, it's too terribly true, the narrator vowing never again to order any meat dishes, particularly sausage, the one remark overheard by the narrator the night he discovers the practice (listening outside the door to the landlady's bedroom where she lets the knacker, with his rucksack, in through the window late at night), uttered by the landlady, being, "Oh what a beautiful dog it was."
Posted by Richard McNally at 11:33 PM
Labels: Dogs, Frost, Th. Bernhard
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