A betrayed will

Private Cary

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In criticizing the art of fiction, is Plotton attacking its weakness or its essence? First of all, it can be said that what he attacked was the novel aesthetics born with Balzac in the early nineteenth century. The novel, then passing through its greatest age, presents itself for the first time as a great social force; possessing an almost hypnotic power of seduction, it foreshadows the art of the cinema: on its imaginary screen the reader sees scenes of fiction so real that he is about to confuse them with the scenes of his own life; In order to conquer the reader, the novelist at that time possessed a whole machine for producing the illusion of reality; but this machine at the same time produced a structural dichotomy for the art of fiction, comparable to the branches of classical and romantic music: Since it is such a delicate logic of cause and effect that makes events almost real, every elementary particle in this chain should not be missed (and it is so meaningless); Since the characters should appear "alive," they should be given as much information as possible (even if it is not surprising that it is all-inclusive); And there is history: in the past, its slow style makes it almost invisible; then it quickens its pace and suddenly (and here is Balzac's great experience) everything around people changes in their lives, the streets they walk in, the furniture in their homes, the institutions they belong to; The background of human life is no longer a fixed, pre-known set, it has become changing,plastic pallet suppliers, and its appearance today is doomed to be forgotten tomorrow, so it is necessary to grasp it and describe it (and these pictures of time flowing away can be so boring). Background: Paintings were discovered in the Renaissance, with a perspective that divides the picture into those in front and those in the background. This leads to particular problems of form: in portraits, for example, the face concentrates more attention and interest than the body, and especially than the background curtain. It is perfectly normal that we see the world around us in this way,plastic pallet bins, yet what is normal in life does not therefore meet the requirements of form in art: the imbalance, in a painting, between what is privileged and what is otherwise, in principle, secondary, to be covered up, taken care of and rebalanced. Or it will be completely swept aside by a new aesthetic that will do away with this dichotomy. Seven After 1948, in the era of Communist revolution in my country, I understood the outstanding role played by lyrical blindness in this period, which for me was an era of "poets and executioners rule together" (Living Elsewhere). I thought of mayakovsky; his genius had been as indispensable to the Russian revolution as dzerjinski's. Lyricism, lyricization, lyrical reporting, plastic pallet manufacturer ,collapsible bulk containers, lyrical fanaticism are all part of what people call the world of despotism; this world, it's not a gulag, it's a gulag with walls that are crawling with worms and people dancing in front of the walls. More than the Great Terror itself, the lyricization of the Great Terror was a strong spiritual shock to me. An ardent Communist, he began to write propaganda poems after 1948, whose mediocrity was startling and heartbreaking. Before long, he committed suicide by jumping from a window onto a stone slab in Prague Street. In this sensitive man, I saw modern art cheated, cuckolded, sacrificed, murdered and committed suicide. My devotion to modern art is thus as passionate as my love of the novel's anti-lyricism. The poetic values that Proton cherishes, the values that all modern art cherishes (intensity, concentration, imagination,collapsible pallet box, relief, contempt for the "worthless moments of life") I have sought them exclusively in the realm of dreamy fiction. They are all the more important to me because of that. This may explain why I am particularly allergic to the kind of annoyance that frightened Debussy, to the symphonies of Brahms or Tchaikovsky; to the chirping of industrious spiders. This may explain why I have long been deaf to Balzac's art and why my favorite novelist is Rabelais. Eight. binpallet.com