Pound's Cantos: Written over many years, some fine imagery particularly in the early parts, gets crazier and crazier and rather phlegm-spackled by the end, which I suppose stands to reason, given the author.
I can't tell whether this is more of an indication that my brain cell might actually be spontaneously gangliating again, or that it's just overclocking from the past week of fever, but I still have the vague suspish that there's some existing metasystem of worldviews whose wheels I'm reinventing.
Mine's deteriorating, I think, because I seem to've lost track of that last bit.
At least the way I remember it, "The Waste Land" ends yearning toward a future that's been somehow spiritually cleansed into peace, though that may just be me overstating the case in light of the history that followed. But since Yeats was enamoured with at least the idea of revolutionary violence, and Pound went on to react to one spasm of it (WWI) by supporting the Axis in the next attempt (WWII), it was certainly in the air around Eliot. (So Y & P were contemptuous of fin-de-ciecle Europe, or at least what it led to. Perhaps I am missing your point?)
Similarly, not to romanticize the bohemienne frippery of rebellion-without-a-cause or to rally the proletariat into smashing the elitist bourgeoisie, but it really doesn't seem as if the Outer Darkness is the only possible alternative to the established categories/system of respectability...
Welllll... is that still so? Now that Hypercapitalism Has Won and all that?
But as to cats: It ain't the color, it's the attitude. Spots of creamy white among either black or brown fur don't hurt, though.
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ninetydegrees
no subject
on 2006-01-10 03:38 pm (UTC)Pound's Cantos: Written over many years, some fine imagery particularly in the early parts, gets crazier and crazier and rather phlegm-spackled by the end, which I suppose stands to reason, given the author.
I can't tell whether this is more of an indication that my brain cell might actually be spontaneously gangliating again, or that it's just overclocking from the past week of fever, but I still have the vague suspish that there's some existing metasystem of worldviews whose wheels I'm reinventing.
Mine's deteriorating, I think, because I seem to've lost track of that last bit.
At least the way I remember it, "The Waste Land" ends yearning toward a future that's been somehow spiritually cleansed into peace, though that may just be me overstating the case in light of the history that followed. But since Yeats was enamoured with at least the idea of revolutionary violence, and Pound went on to react to one spasm of it (WWI) by supporting the Axis in the next attempt (WWII), it was certainly in the air around Eliot. (So Y & P were contemptuous of fin-de-ciecle Europe, or at least what it led to. Perhaps I am missing your point?)
Similarly, not to romanticize the bohemienne frippery of rebellion-without-a-cause or to rally the proletariat into smashing the elitist bourgeoisie, but it really doesn't seem as if the Outer Darkness is the only possible alternative to the established categories/system of respectability...
Welllll... is that still so? Now that Hypercapitalism Has Won and all that?
But as to cats: It ain't the color, it's the attitude. Spots of creamy white among either black or brown fur don't hurt, though.