Epistemysics

Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

Villains

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I have such a disdain – though a fascination, nonetheless – of Mr Lovelace, though when it comes to villains, I think him much easier to empathise with than that manipulatress in Parade’s End, whose name I can’t recall.  Sylvia, I think.  Yes, Sylvia.  Tietjens.  I suppose Lovelace wants Clarissa for himself, whereas Sylvia wanted misery for others, which is a different level of villainy, perhaps?  Shakespeare’s Richard III is on Lovelace’s level, what with his ambition and all.  (I say “Shakespeare’s Richard III”, as if there’s any other Richard III I’d be referring to…)  (Well, I suppose I could be referring to the historical one, but that’s unlikely.)  (I’ve noticed that I’m starting to put a second, and separate, bracketed-phrase when I write, as opposed to just adding the sentence in the first bracketed-phrase.  Apparently I’m evolving.  I’ve no idea whether it’s for the better or worse, though.)

Then again, is it very NC of me to consider them all as villains?  (NC = Negative Capability.  It doesn’t fit grammatically, but treat “NC” as an adjective, or whatever.)  If I bother to consider things for even a minor moment, I can sympathise with Slyvia, because she’s acting out of a profound sense of pain and existential angst, crying out for attention from the one person who won’t give it to her.  Richard III, though I haven’t had much interaction (bar reading the opening scene) with the play since we studied it in high school (and hence didn’t enjoy it), is getting revenge for being shunned, I think?  Plus a great deal of ambition, obviously.

“Bottled spider”…  What a phrase!

I was musing today on the topic I was mulling over a few months ago (or longer than that, perhaps); namely, the amount of work involved in receiving a piece of art, and whether that adds (within reason) to its greatness, or not, as work is often its own reward, and hence will add value.  My conclusion was that it does, in a way.  (One imagines that the work put into reading Ulysses gives us a greater feeling for it.)  The additional part of my musing – the new part, that is – was as follows:

Length, too, by its very nature, is a form of work.  I was wondering today whether, with respect to length, there might not be some form of Stockholm Syndrome going on.  One spends so long with a novel, that one can’t help but feel love towards it.  (Although, to be honest, I believe I’ve tested this to the extreme by reading Finnegans Wake, and I think I feel nothing more than an academic admiration for it, as opposed to Infinite Jest, say.)  We come to sympathise with our captors, do we not?

Still, I doubt I’ll ever truly unpack my feelings towards literature, not that I won’t keep trying.

Nothing on the scratchie today.  Finished Letter 424.  I can see the light, the light!

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Written by epistemysics

January 8, 2013 at 12:34 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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