Tuesday 26 February 2013

Art, Autobiographical

You demand that all art or at least all writing be autobiographical, autobiographical in the purest sense, unfalsified, there lies truth and all that . . . and so I'll try my best, have a go, but rather than go into too many details I'll try to distill a bit, reduce, which is to say elevate all this autobiographicising, all this seamless and remorseless selfhood to something like its essence - and noone could ask more or much more of me than that.

I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I . . . me, me, me, me, me, me, me . . . 

There, it doesn't get much more distilled than that. You might argue it's a bit infantile, even all a bit monotonous when seen in such a light, but I'm sure it's just a question of the light.

Wednesday 20 February 2013

Danger

There is a great danger this sentence will not reach its conclusion. Though I don't know, perhaps I exaggerated - maybe there was no danger.