“The novel, which is a work of art, exists, not buy its resemblances to life, which are forced and material…but by its immeasurable difference from life…”
Robert Louis Stevenson quoted in Jean Baudrillard, The Perfect Crime, trans. Christ Turner (London: Verso, 2008 [1996]), 95.
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This entry was posted on November 13, 2010 at 8:47 am and is filed under academe, art, books, conspiracy, criticism, fiction, life, media, meme, mind control, nature, philosophy, psychology, romanticism, time, weird. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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November 14, 2010 at 4:02 pm |
Exactly, this sentiment comes to mind when I view Norman Rockwell, who I’ve recently gotten into thanks to a recent smithsonian exhibit.
Rockwell’s often confused for portraying life – as if through photo-journalism – when his pieces are actually very far from any moment you could come across in real life.
As in Rockwell and other artists, I’ve found, it’s through the fine manipulation of things and the understanding of human hearts and perception, that they can create an experience as powerful as any real-life experience.
November 28, 2010 at 3:27 pm |
The novel is a translation and thereby a violence marked on pages turned into the desire to have chaos within our grasp and upon our tongues, and to find traces of what it is to breathe and love.
(they also make damn good coasters in a pinch).