In the country, he thought, the gods still come to people. A man matters, his experiences matter, but in the city, where experiences come by the thousands, we can no longer relate them to ourselves; and this is of course the beginning of life’s notorious turning into abstraction.
But even as he thought all this, he was also aware of how this abstraction extended a man’s power a thousandfold and how, even if from the point of view of any given detail it diluted him tenfold, as a whole it expanded him a hundredfold, and there could be no question of turning the wheel backward.
Mirrors should reflect a bit more before sending back images.
# 87 The Names, D. DeLillo, 1982.
The list so far:
My name is Don DeLillo and I want to play a game with you, dear reader. Here is book that I’ve written lately, it’s about an ancient cult that kills people and worship words and letters, also the main character is researching risks in middle eastern countries by some mathematical means. Anyway if you are interested in numbers, patters and equations you should try it. I mean it seems like that’s what the book is about, right?
And the cover looks good too…
the image of literature to be found in contemporary culture is tyrannically
centered on the author, his person, his history, his tastes, his passions; criticism still
consists, most of the time, in saying that Baudelaire’s work is the failure of the man
Baudelaire, Van Gogh’s work his madness, Tchaikovsky’s his vice: the explanation of
the work is always sought in the man who has produced it, as if, through the more or
less transparent allegory of fiction, it was always finally the voice of one and the same
person, the author, which delivered his “confidence.”
I could be a book explaining everything on margins