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Thursday, July 6, 2017


When Robert Duncan writes in Faust Foutu (1960, 1985):

"Protect us from those who play with dolls,"

he puts men in the position of being those who play with those who play with dolls.

And when he writes:

"Modesty means nothing to the sea," and:

"I'll fill myself with trouble until I resemble the universe," and:

"The moon upon the water is country enough for me," and:

"For all the hell of history, we have been feeding ourselves into mankind. For Nothing! Nothing!," and:

"I have no extravagant pride in sin. I know it's place," and:

"Everything is truth," (Cf. G.W.F. Hegel: "The truth is the whole," and Sartre's call for a "totalizing" analytic),

one wonders . . . .


Despicably pedantic (though not as bad as Echo's Bones) but not without an air of eccentric, too often lame merriment. I can see now why this was suggested reading for the summer before going off to the nest of tweedy (as in "twee") mediocrities who attempted to teach one the meaning of literature. Classic case of a writer with little to say trying too hard. Clear why it wasn't published in the U$ till after Godot, though it first appeared in London, surprisingly, before, in 1938.