Bungler on Nostr: 🌲Fæġer Mæġden🌲 Uneris 饕餮姐姐 The subjugation of the organic & the ...
🌲Fæġer Mæġden🌲 (npub1g0u…3vfw) Uneris 饕餮姐姐 (npub1zf4…3zta) The subjugation of the organic & the meaningful to the mechanical & exploitable. The triumph of the Redditor who would reduce all things to quantifiable puzzles the "solving" of which make him feel more clever than he ever actually can be, stroking his ego with delusions of the adequacy of his own enfeebled mind; & the victory of the marketeer, who seeks to reduce the whole world to plastic prefab genre-categories, as predictable & regular as the synthetic consumerist doodads that flow off automated assembly lines, & having as much of life & humanity about them.
Literature is just inscribed speech. & speech is a form of communication, which is supposed to flow from person to person, from heart to heart. There's no room for the heart in the wasteland of commercial fantasy -- the heart doesn't conform to the cold machinations of the advertising algorithms, it doesn't fit neatly into the little labelled boxes, the banal & simplified taxonomies of Extruded Fantasy Product. But what we have here is the ripping out of human communication from literature, an excision of the heart, on the part of those whose hearts, in their wayward lust for ego & gold, have transmuted themselves to lead.
It stands against authentic human communication in literature, as prostitution stands against marriage. Or perhaps I should liken it more to porn, which is just the vicarious prostitution of the mass-media age. It's all rather pornographic isn't it? The ticking of the right checklist of elements that the readership's brains crave to bring them cheap, low-level pleasure, something to masturbate their minds with, but void of depth or meaning, the poignant, the sublime, the profound. As forgettable & disposable as resin-ridden fast-food wrappers.
When I read fantasy I want to open the door to the imagination of the author that holds the personal touch of his own wonder, of things he has done & seen, even in his dreams, what inspires & uplifts his soul, what drags it into the most fearsome seas of dread, the high & the low, his heaven & hell, & the maps & patterns of meaning he sees in the world, at the intersection of the personal with the eternal, those subtle threads of gold that run through all things & bind them together, showing them a larger whole.
I think a deeper problem is that the ever-present churning of the mass-media machine may have ground away the dreams of the majority replacing them with ... well, whatever current-era Fantasy is, & has been for some time. But that's a whole other nightmare to be explored.
Literature is just inscribed speech. & speech is a form of communication, which is supposed to flow from person to person, from heart to heart. There's no room for the heart in the wasteland of commercial fantasy -- the heart doesn't conform to the cold machinations of the advertising algorithms, it doesn't fit neatly into the little labelled boxes, the banal & simplified taxonomies of Extruded Fantasy Product. But what we have here is the ripping out of human communication from literature, an excision of the heart, on the part of those whose hearts, in their wayward lust for ego & gold, have transmuted themselves to lead.
It stands against authentic human communication in literature, as prostitution stands against marriage. Or perhaps I should liken it more to porn, which is just the vicarious prostitution of the mass-media age. It's all rather pornographic isn't it? The ticking of the right checklist of elements that the readership's brains crave to bring them cheap, low-level pleasure, something to masturbate their minds with, but void of depth or meaning, the poignant, the sublime, the profound. As forgettable & disposable as resin-ridden fast-food wrappers.
When I read fantasy I want to open the door to the imagination of the author that holds the personal touch of his own wonder, of things he has done & seen, even in his dreams, what inspires & uplifts his soul, what drags it into the most fearsome seas of dread, the high & the low, his heaven & hell, & the maps & patterns of meaning he sees in the world, at the intersection of the personal with the eternal, those subtle threads of gold that run through all things & bind them together, showing them a larger whole.
I think a deeper problem is that the ever-present churning of the mass-media machine may have ground away the dreams of the majority replacing them with ... well, whatever current-era Fantasy is, & has been for some time. But that's a whole other nightmare to be explored.