From: Thivai4062-AT-aol.com Date: Tue, 24 Nov 1998 12:32:04 EST Subject: Distorture--Rob Hardin This is a multi-part message in MIME format. --part0_911928724_boundary Content-ID: <0_911928724-AT-inet_out.mail.aol.com.1> Writing is dissonant counterpoint---the chamber music of nightmares & empty attics. It is vomiting in order to savor last night's narcotics. It is contamination, the act of scraping parthogenic bacilli from the walls of the throat & injecting them into the mind of the reader. It is recoil & distortion, the sociopathic spewing of fictions. Whatever i try to say is negated by my mania to explain. It is this glitch which divides me. Am i the cartographer of vacancy, or a narcissist tracing his own sewage (language)? Am I writing an ode to sterility, or the self- summary of an absence? Without induction, my voice is impotence: it cannot recognize its captor. Was it you, mon semblance, who stretched me out like a hostage on linearity's narrow floor? Or does the fault lie with that doomed escape-artist, the subject? Suppose he shrieks, for example---if i attribute his hysteria to physical pain & then describe it, will he feel the discomfort? Of course not---my words will only create another paradox. I aim at the Father & succeed in blowing the skin off a metaphor. When narrative becomes a sealed corridor with a pistol for an exit, the reader notices a breakdown in his identification with the narrator. Thanks to the writer, infection is inevitable. >> --part0_911928724_boundary Content-ID: <0_911928724-AT-inet_out.mail.aol.com.2> From: MBenton723-AT-aol.com
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