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Wednesday, 30 August 2017
quote [ It is thought up to 10 incomplete novels were destroyed, as per the author's final wishes. ]
"It's surprisingly difficult to find somebody to run over a hard drive with a steamroller."
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Spark said @ 8:11pm GMT on 30th August
When I was at University, I got seethingly angry at an English lecturer that I've never met. I wish I could remember the details better, but for some reason I was outside of their office and there was a printed out article stuck to the outside of their office door. It was about... someone, let's say J.D. Salinger, and how it was absolutely awful that they (or their family, I think) wouldn't allow their letters (maybe diaries) to be published. It waxed lyrically over the loss to the literary world of the insight that these letters might have given critics. To know the mindset of the creative at that time can offer deep and meaningful analysis and insight into the characters, the settings, and the events of a piece of work. That sort of thing.
After I finished reading it I remember thinking... fffffffuuuuuuucccckkkkk yyyyoooooooouuuu... Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you so much you don't know what month it is any more. A writer doesn't owe you anything. They wrote some things that you enjoyed, found clever, or maybe even had a revelatory emotional experience from. That's brilliant. That's amazing. Really. But fuck you for trying to impose your life on someone who doesn't (or whose family doesn't) want to expose personal life to the public. If you really respected this artist you'd take this piece of paper off your door and stop being so utterly self indulgent.
Anyway. There's no real end to this story. I think I walked away and carried on with my day. Tch... what a crowd.
Spark said @ 8:13pm GMT on 30th August
When I was at University, I got seethingly angry at an English lecturer that I've never met. I wish I could remember the details better, but for some reason I was outside of their office and there was a printed out article stuck to the outside of their office door. It was about... someone, let's say J.D. Salinger, and how it was absolutely awful that they (or their family, I think) wouldn't allow their letters (maybe diaries) to be published. It waxed lyrically over the loss to the literary world of the insight that these letters might have given critics. To know the mindset of the creative at that time can offer deep and meaningful analysis and insight into the characters, the settings, and the events of a piece of work. That sort of thing.
After I finished reading it I remember thinking... fffffffuuuuuuucccckkkkk yyyyoooooooouuuu... Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you so much you don't know what month it is any more. A writer doesn't owe you anything. They wrote some things that you enjoyed, found clever, or maybe even had a revelatory emotional experience from. That's brilliant. That's amazing. Really. But fuck you for trying to impose your life on someone who doesn't (or whose family doesn't) want to expose personal life to the public. If you really respected this artist you'd take this piece of paper off your door and stop being so utterly self indulgent.
Anyway. There's no real end to this story. I think I walked away and carried on with my day. Man... tch... what a crowd.
<-- Entry / Current Comment
Spark said @ 8:11pm GMT on 30th August [Score:1 Funsightful]
When I was at University, I got seethingly angry at an English lecturer that I've never met. I wish I could remember the details better, but for some reason I was outside of their office and there was a printed out article stuck to the outside of their office door. It was about... someone, let's say J.D. Salinger, and how it was absolutely awful that they (or their family, I think) wouldn't allow their letters (maybe diaries) to be published. It waxed lyrically over the loss to the literary world of the insight that these letters might have given critics. To know the mindset of the creative at that time can offer deep and meaningful analysis and insight into the characters, the settings, and the events of a piece of work. That sort of thing.
After I finished reading it I remember thinking... fffffffuuuuuuucccckkkkk yyyyoooooooouuuu... Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you so much you don't know what month it is any more. A writer doesn't owe you anything. They wrote some things that you enjoyed, found clever, or maybe even had a revelatory emotional experience from. That's brilliant. That's amazing. Really. But fuck you for trying to impose your life on someone who doesn't (or whose family doesn't) want to expose personal life to the public. If you really respected this artist you'd take this piece of paper off your door and stop being so utterly self indulgent.
Anyway. There's no real end to this story. I think I walked away and carried on with my day. Man... tch... what a crowd.
