How severely misunderstood, yet rightly-righteously glimpsed! Perhaps we of wounded faith have just enough ardor left to corral the full mass of our soul and submit wholly, fanatically, to the altar of literary veritas. We atone in dappled descriptions, confess to the blooming detail; nay, not detours of a Spenserian knight in filigree woods, but soul-grieved wanderlust for, yes, lifeness, hoping, believing, praying, that no prophet intermediates Truth and Knowing, God and Revelation, text and being, but that only a direct, diaphanous tunnel cleaves word to Word. Perhaps Wood's close readings, as Deresiewicz deplores, is a symptom of the malaise of pomo sociocultural numbness. The metastasizing chase of false gods has soundly caught us. Perhaps (and why not? for what good has even postcoloniality, post-9/11, post-all-post vivisections done? what glory now prevails in Cambodia, Congo, Darfur, Rwanda, the Gaza Strip, rickety tread of the dispossessed on Pul-Sirat capillaries of the world?) amid all the dross, a cellular craving eggs us on for and toward something outside of the self, a pulse both concrete yet imaginary, alphabetic yet synaptic, shadows refined"real"... where we may cull some solace, some opium, even a single decibel of echoing truth no matter how subjective and how illogical... (for aren't they all, despite all urgings and urgencies, merely metaphoric semaphores?) I concede the textuality of the real, the merely figurative/synthetic consolation of literature... yet the pious soul prostrates before fictive twins, palms arrowed toward alms of meaning, significance. Perhaps only the cloister of a shriveled book-array--select, singular tomes and tombs -- is the only hermitage one can still afford now. To Wood his study, to me my (less than or equal to) 8 by 11 mind (room, page, book). Our claim to private truthiness ain't for public bidding. Thank god(s).
Jan 2 2009 - 3:21pm