I must confess that what I glean from the Tractatus is to be used by me as a sort of cargo-cult fuel, and W's own evaluations of his work do not overly concern me. His attempt to trap what the late Richard Feynmann alluded to as the "messiness of the real world" in a theorem, or set of principles, is to me a bold and admirable business, whether or not it is doomed to fail. Any book, fiction or non-fiction, is like a set of propositions that define a specific and finite world and exclude all else. I guess I am just looking for sturdy German containers to carry my thoughts around in. And my auto-didactic persona may make all this seem somewhat more seriously taken by me than it actually is.
Joculum has presented me with an interesting example of W. observing a man on stage, and a short treatise on the psychology of viewing. I like the idea of Wittgenstein as a new, informed sort of observer. Here is a man who can possibly "see" Shrodinger's cat and tell us if all is well? I had already surmised that W would prefer a reality based on observing actions, rather than relating through words. The simple writer's dictum: show, don't tell. The theater, or movies as higher forms of art. But what about images that lie? W. doesn't care because they all signify something knowable. A book that is entirely devoted to this topic of the viewer, the viewed, and the interior and exterior spaces of art is: The Model by Robert Aickman. This book gives me aesthetic shivers of a profound and unknown kind.
Joculum has presented me with an interesting example of W. observing a man on stage, and a short treatise on the psychology of viewing. I like the idea of Wittgenstein as a new, informed sort of observer. Here is a man who can possibly "see" Shrodinger's cat and tell us if all is well? I had already surmised that W would prefer a reality based on observing actions, rather than relating through words. The simple writer's dictum: show, don't tell. The theater, or movies as higher forms of art. But what about images that lie? W. doesn't care because they all signify something knowable. A book that is entirely devoted to this topic of the viewer, the viewed, and the interior and exterior spaces of art is: The Model by Robert Aickman. This book gives me aesthetic shivers of a profound and unknown kind.
Comments
Aickman, is a writer that I feel is quite undervalued due to his genre, which falls between "serious" fiction and fantasy. He described his own stories as "strange" tales. He can be very psychologically subtle, which leads to small or large epiphanies of purely felt terror. Yet for me he expresses not "pulp horror", but possibly "the horror of being Aickman." There is much of Kafka in him.
The Model is a novella, but most of his work has been short stories. I think "The Stains," "Into the Wood," and "Never visit Venice" are literary classics. However, that just betrays my fondness for writers with odd sensibilities. There is always something lurking in an Aickman story that you almost hope will never reveal itself-- but you do always do get a glimpse that has greater substance to it than, say, what Lovecraft often serves up. He is pure Aickman-- like Picasso, any attempts to imitate him are only successful when done by himself.
Edited at 2009-02-12 02:27 pm (UTC)
I don't think big Chief Sitting Tween's allegations, that he was afflicted by the spell that befell the big mound builders of between the rivers, should be taken too lightly. Sure enough, much is to be gleaned by using his medicine bag, but you wouldn't want it to play nasty tricks on you.
And of course The Moody Blues!