Literature: The 7-Year Ass Whooping
Arthur C. Clarke. H.G. Wells. J.G. Ballard. Brian Aldiss. Paul McAuley. Gwyneth Jones. Liz Williams. Stephen Baxter.
They may or may not comprise chapter 2 of my thesis. The Spanish authors for chapter 3 are already fixed and I won't have to worry about them. But writing about Utopia wasn't something I had expected at the beginning of this enterprise. Yet, here I am, looking at anti-utopia, eutopia, the critical utopia and dystopia in their grim, forward-looking faces, with naught but a reverent bow to the likes of Lyman Tower Sargent and Tom Moylan. With nothing but a brain that can explode or implode at any moment --from information overload or a lack of discerning.
When I write about literary theory, there are times --experienced more often than not --when I say, "I know nothing" and I cringe from the catastrophic hugeness of it. Of knowledge. Of an almost ungraspable comprehension. And my pen suddenly stops, with fear at the edges of the paper.
Like in the Matrix, there are times when I just wish to plug myself into a chair, slip a USB or CD that comprises all knowledge and understanding of literary theory, then wake --suddenly enlightened. Albeit my brain a bit fried at the attempt. But there would be no joy in learning, no journey. Only an end.
Learning literary theory has become such sweet, almost psychic torture that I sometimes ask myself why I am still here. But I am. And I have to finish this. I have to look at the names listed above and work my precious ass off to glean some bit of knowledge, an idea borrowed from hundreds of books so that the stories they've imparted reveal meaning not seen by others.
I think that I am thoroughly fucked sometimes. Literature, you heavy, unforgiving prick. I want to pack you away in three hard bound copies, with a cap on my head, and a band singing a tune to my departure from the academe. But I'll never quite escape you, will I? You will always be at the center of Reason and Mystery. You'll be hounding me to my death-bed. You'll be sitting on my shelves with an enticing grin.
Oh well. I ought to get used to it. Back to thesis. Back to the travails of a lit major...and then some.
They may or may not comprise chapter 2 of my thesis. The Spanish authors for chapter 3 are already fixed and I won't have to worry about them. But writing about Utopia wasn't something I had expected at the beginning of this enterprise. Yet, here I am, looking at anti-utopia, eutopia, the critical utopia and dystopia in their grim, forward-looking faces, with naught but a reverent bow to the likes of Lyman Tower Sargent and Tom Moylan. With nothing but a brain that can explode or implode at any moment --from information overload or a lack of discerning.
When I write about literary theory, there are times --experienced more often than not --when I say, "I know nothing" and I cringe from the catastrophic hugeness of it. Of knowledge. Of an almost ungraspable comprehension. And my pen suddenly stops, with fear at the edges of the paper.
Like in the Matrix, there are times when I just wish to plug myself into a chair, slip a USB or CD that comprises all knowledge and understanding of literary theory, then wake --suddenly enlightened. Albeit my brain a bit fried at the attempt. But there would be no joy in learning, no journey. Only an end.
Learning literary theory has become such sweet, almost psychic torture that I sometimes ask myself why I am still here. But I am. And I have to finish this. I have to look at the names listed above and work my precious ass off to glean some bit of knowledge, an idea borrowed from hundreds of books so that the stories they've imparted reveal meaning not seen by others.
I think that I am thoroughly fucked sometimes. Literature, you heavy, unforgiving prick. I want to pack you away in three hard bound copies, with a cap on my head, and a band singing a tune to my departure from the academe. But I'll never quite escape you, will I? You will always be at the center of Reason and Mystery. You'll be hounding me to my death-bed. You'll be sitting on my shelves with an enticing grin.
Oh well. I ought to get used to it. Back to thesis. Back to the travails of a lit major...and then some.