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.)
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Friday, December 19, 2014
Cosmopolis / DeLillo
I picked this up as a used paperback with multiple creases in the pages that annoyed me every step of the way; it was as if someone had bent it in half a dozen times at different angles, most annoying, and the story, as of the halfway point, which is where I bailed, concerns a wealthy cold-blooded insomniac sex addict "genius" currency trader who takes a limousine ride crosstown in Manhattan to get a haircut, receiving a prostate exam from his personal physician en route during which he, yes, during which he has a consultation with a female principal of his firm, how charming, and comes across a political demonstration near Times Square protesting capitalism (cleverly, as a "specter that haunts the U.S.)--not my type a guy. Some interesting observations about the mechanisms by which cyber-capital circulates, but the coldness of the novel is a turn-off. Stylistically, not much to notice; too many short sentences, kept tripping over full-stops; isn't that the way beginning writers write?
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