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 shall look away, that will henceforth be my sole negation
No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost
A. Ginsberg – Kaddish
It’s time get this blog back on track, a little more time and a little more summer outside. That helps. The quote above caught my eye lately. This isn’t a surprise but let’s make it clear. Allen Ginsberg has a lot more to offer than just Howl.
The text is a tissue of citations, resulting from the thousand sources of culture.
The Author, when we believe in him, is always conceived as the past of his own book: the book and the author take their places of their own accord on the same line, cast as a before and an after: the Author is supposed to feed the book — that is, he pre-exists it, thinks, suffers, lives for it; he maintains with his work the same relation of antecedence a father maintains with his child.
Art does not acknowledge
the existence of noise (in the informational sense of the word). It is
a pure system: there are no wasted units, and there can never be any,
however long, loose, or tenuous the threads which link them to one of
the levels of the story.
‘I would have wanted to produce not a comedy of the intellect but its romanesque, its novelistic theory’