Examination Question: Section A

[Dillinger]

Hell yeah. You, me, Laurie and Mr. Burroughs... we be rockin'!

Well I dreamed there was an island That rose up from the sea. And everybody on the island Was somebody from TV. And there was a beautiful view But nobody could see. Cause everybody on the island Was saying: Look at me! Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!

 

[riff]

Shit, I have lost control of the classroom. OK, guys. Go play the goddamned video games on the internet.... LOL

 

[riff]

But before you go, just let me say that the letter does not answer the questions directly, though itself is a highly relevant text (work of art) that is criticizing another text, but is also very personal too. Immensely personal at the time as I remember.

Now, go. I will post some exerpts later when we can all talk like adults. Besides, I am really at the point of the evening where I like to post a little porn.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Okay Riff, you fucker

to Louise Colet, 14 August 1853


c) (as his sister Caroline lay dying) "My own eyes are as dry as marble. It's strange how sorrows in fiction make me open up and overflow with feeling, whereas real sorrows remain hard and bitter in my heart, turning to crystal as soon as they arise."
-Letter to Maxime Du Camp, 15 March 1846

d) "You tell me that I seriously loved that woman [Mme. Schlesinger]. I didn't; it isn't true. Only when I was writing to her, with that capacity I possess for producing feelings within myself by means of the pen, did I take my subject seriously: but only when I was writing. Many things which leave me cold when I see or hear about them none the less move me to enthusiasm or irritation or pain if I talk about them myself or --particularly-- if I write about them. This is one of the effects of my mountebank nature."
-Letter to Louise Colet, 8 October 1846

[/I]

The sorrow, beauty, and travails created in the worlds of fiction, poetry, and art are separate from our beings, our reality. Our inner sanctum is safe from the ravaging of this art, but it is slightly touched by its presence, the very nearness of art to our selves. It moves us emotionally, and some time spiritually, because it does not actually affect us directly. When humans physically encounter the sorrow, horror, beauty, or the intense emotions that art represents, we tend to mentally shut down. In an effort to preserve our beings we remove our emotions in order to deal with reality and preserve our physical selves. Prime example: Goya. Goya's works are breathtaking and intensely moving. Why? Because we are not the subjects. We are not enduring the particular reality he is portraying, therefore we are free to explore and feel the emotions brought up from the viewing of his art.
Love. Do we actually love, or is this another form of art? I often wonder at this. Halmark tells us that we love. Byron, Shelley, Shakespeare, Jane Austin..... they all create an intense reaction in us to their words, their phrases, their "love making." But have those overwhelming, consuming, all encompassing emotions ever truly been felt in one human? Doubtful, at least to the extent at which they are portrayed. We brush closely, but self preservation steps in and reserves our inner sanctum.
Art inspires Life. Art is the pedestal to which Life aspires, but can never completely attain. Life is never as vibrant as Art. But somehow Life is more satisfying because of Art's influence.

Okay you fuckers - I expect to be fucked "artfully" for my work, because it is not happening in Life! To work through these ideas on a porn board....... shit. I should at least be well petted.

 

[Hamletmaschine]

Come with me to the cloakroom, darlin', and you'll get whatever you want.

 

[riff]

Re: Okay Riff, you fucker

The sorrow, beauty, and travails created in the worlds of fiction, poetry, and art are separate from our beings, our reality. Our inner sanctum is safe from the ravaging of this art, but it is slightly touched by its presence, the very nearness of art to our selves. It moves us emotionally, and some time spiritually, because it does not actually affect us directly. When humans physically encounter the sorrow, horror, beauty, or the intense emotions that art represents, we tend to mentally shut down. In an effort to preserve our beings we remove our emotions in order to deal with reality and preserve our physical selves. Prime example: Goya. Goya's works are breathtaking and intensely moving. Why? Because we are not the subjects. We are not enduring the particular reality he is portraying, therefore we are free to explore and feel the emotions brought up from the viewing of his art.
Love. Do we actually love, or is this another form of art? I often wonder at this. Halmark tells us that we love. Byron, Shelley, Shakespeare, Jane Austin..... they all create an intense reaction in us to their words, their phrases, their "love making." But have those overwhelming, consuming, all encompassing emotions ever truly been felt in one human? Doubtful, at least to the extent at which they are portrayed. We brush closely, but self preservation steps in and reserves our inner sanctum.
Art inspires Life. Art is the pedestal to which Life aspires, but can never completely attain. Life is never as vibrant as Art. But somehow Life is more satisfying because of Art's influence.

Okay you fuckers - I expect to be fucked "artfully" for my work, because it is not happening in Life! To work through these ideas on a porn board....... shit. I should at least be well petted.

This is all very well said, I think. It is lucid and cogent. "Do we have to talk about sex all the time?" (Love & Death, Woody Allen)

I cannot remember if it was Wilde or Walter Pater who said that all art aspires to the condition of music? It is very Wildean, or Paterian, nonetheless.

I want to post some porn now! I am petting you, I am petting you.... hehheheh

 

[Hamletmaschine]

You two, Hamlet and Rick Derringer, should be stood before the chalkboard and shot.

Holy Smokes!
Looks like some kind of guest/host relationship to me.
And I said, "Hey, Pal!
What's going on here, anyway?
Who are you?"
And he said,
"Now, I'm the Soul Doctor,
And you know, language is a virus from Outer space.
And hearing your name is better
Than seeing your face."

 

[Dillinger]

The sorrow, beauty, and travails created in the worlds of fiction, poetry, and art are separate from our beings, our reality...

Right now there is nothing I want to do more than go to a museum with you.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Riff,
Well said, you think? that's damning with faint praise if I ever heard it. I was going without aides, "riffing" off the top of my head if you will.
And it was Wilde who said that.

Hamlet - I going with you into that cloakroom as our teacher is more interested in other porn and I'm all worked up now!
*takes off glasses, throws blue book at chalkboard*

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Right now there is nothing I want to do more than go to a museum with you.

Dilly!

Come on in the cloak room first, then off to the Met we go!

 

[seXieleXie]

"For why the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard. There isn't any other tale to tell, it's the only light we've got in all this darkness"

 

[seXieleXie]

"For why the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard. There isn't any other tale to tell, it's the only light we've got in all this darkness"

p.s. - if you can tell me who said that and in what work, i'll fall in love with you instantly. or maybe just fuck you. or maybe just be really impressed.

 

[riff]

Who is fucking who?
Who is soul doctor?
Who are you? Who, who? Who, who?

Hamletsmachine and Dillinger. To shoot you would be to easy.

And I am posting porn. It's all porn. We live in a pornographic universe.

And language came from out of space.

~banging the cracked kettle

 

[riff]

p.s. - if you can tell me who said that and in what work, i'll fall in love with you instantly. or maybe just fuck you. or maybe just be really impressed.

Either you or Dickens.

No wait- ok. yeah, you or Dickens.

 

[Dillinger]

p.s. - if you can tell me who said that and in what work, i'll fall in love with you instantly. or maybe just fuck you. or maybe just be really impressed.

James Baldwin - "Sonny's Blues"

Jazz me, baby...

 

[Dillinger]

Hamletsmachine and Dillinger. To shoot you would be to easy.

Haven't had a shooter in a while, bring it on...

 

[Hamletmaschine]

Since Wilde ripped off most of his aesthetic ideas from either Pater or Ruskin, I think the jury's still out on that one. But be that as it may, I'm having second thoughts about the cloakroom only because I won't be able to look into those lovely green eyes.
Perhaps a bit of 'artful' fucking on the desk, instead, since Teach won't be using it?

 

[Dillinger]

Dilly!

Come on in the cloak room first, then off to the Met we go!

Hell yeah, a fuck before culture is always in order.

 

[seXieleXie]

James Baldwin - "Sonny's Blues"

Jazz me, baby...

c'mere big guy



oh yeah.... quote baldwin to me baby



oh yeah... that's the way i like it...



oooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

.
.
.


was it good for you?

 

[Hamletmaschine]

Shit, I wasn't paying attention in class again. And I just taught that story, too.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Since Wilde ripped off most of his aesthetic ideas from either Pater or Ruskin, I think the jury's still out on that one. But be that as it may, I'm having second thoughts about the cloakroom only because I won't be able to look into those lovely green eyes.
Perhaps a bit of 'artful' fucking on the desk, instead, since Teach won't be using it?

Wilde was fashionable, yet not original.
And the desk would be lovely, thank you so much for the suggestion. Now, shall we use teach's desk or one of the little ones with the seat attached?

 

[Dillinger]

c'mere big guy



oh yeah.... quote baldwin to me baby



oh yeah... that's the way i like it...



oooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

.
.
.


was it good for you?

Oh baby! Is this REAL LOVE? OH MY!

"All I know about music is that not many people ever really hear it. And even then, on the rare occasions when something opens within, and the music enters, what we mainly hear, or hear corroborated, are personal, private, vanishing evocations. But the man who creates the music is hearing something else, is dealing with the roar rising from the void and imposing order on it as it hits the air."

 

[seXieleXie]

Shit, I wasn't paying attention in class again. And I just taught that story, too.

it's okay honey, runner up gets a prize too

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Aw, shit! I say we hijack this whole classroom and have one big messy pile of enlightened, cultured fun on the floor!

 

[riff]

Heh....

Hey, while everyone is fucking, I just thought you might like to know that after writing a letter and eating a strudel at the bookstore, I bought

"Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal," by Christopher Moore (I saw it in a thread somewhere and was very struck by the title and the name Biff). When I read the back cover, I thought, "Oh my god, this guy is gonna tell the story of my life," even though I know nothing about either the book or my life.

I also got The Best American Poetry 2001 (I missed a couple of years but have many of this series back to 88 or 89). A reading of the list of writers sounds like the American Country Club of Poets.