Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's Bête Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com

Monday, July 12, 2004


In answer to Mr. Sasha Frere-Jones’s question of a week or so ago:

It’s like Emily Dickinson’s “letter to the world,” sent sometimes more than twice as often as the Brownings’ bi-diurnal post, with hopes that the world writes back.

Like notes passed back and forth at school that you want everybody to read.

Like the stuff quoted in a treatise in my university library by a 6th grade teacher who required his students to keep a record of at least one new thought or observation per day, blowing away aesthetically and imaginatively the coaxed poeticisms of Kenneth Koch’s kiddies. (Though I have to admit the linked example has a certain Bly-esque pathos.)

O. Wilde: criticism is spiritual autobiography.

Like late-medieval Japanese linked verse, each link standing on its own while simultaneously completing what precedes or follows, often while alluding to by-wayed erudition.

Like the conversation of the Borg.

Like pasted up pamphleteering, like virtual graffiti.

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