I was pondering the issue of writers and how much the content means, as opposed to beautiful prose that goes on and on for pages describing something to saturation. I'm down to two at the time simply because I can't practice my French and Italian enough. I used to be fluent in four languages: English, French, Italian, and Spanish. Those 127 pages are my favorite pieces of writing, ever. But which cannot be held never be held and is no flower but is swift and a huntress and the wind itself is in terror of it and the world cannot lose it." What we may well believe has power to cut and shape and hollow out teh dark form of the world surely if wind can, if rain can. What blood and bone are mode of but can themselves not make on any altar nor by any wound of war. "He took up her stiff head out of the leaves and held it or he reached to hold what cannot be held, what already ran among the mountains at once terrible and of a great beauty, like flowers that feed on flesh. Durrel's Justine (but only get it used-he was a evil wife beating bastard). Lampedusa's The Leopard, for amusement-Matt Ruff's Sewer Gas Electric. As that post has died, unfortunately, I will post my list here.Īs I said before-Cormac McCarthy, especially Blood Meridian and The Crossing.
In starting the newer thread, I had just hoped we could post favorites that stepped a bit outside the high school/English 101 canon. I prefer a bit of insight, mixed with a strong bit of writing ability. Hunter Thompson, Thomas Pynchon, Vonnegut, David Foster Wallace. The crazy, the drunk, the fool, and the womanizer are all held to be naturally better writers, and I find that a bit irritating. Though victorian england had a habit of destroying their young gneius writers, I find that we have the exact opposite habit in this era. "Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught".Ī few points in response. This article is quite interesting and gives an idea of the depth of obtusiveness prevalent in British society at the time. Authors like DeQuincy, Marlowe, even Lord Byron and Percy Shelley were practically ignored at the time (mercifully the historic revision brought them back to where they belonged in the first place), simply because they indulged in opium and homosexual activities.Ī perfect example of this ridiculous approach is Oscar Wilde, who went from being l'enfant terrible of the literary scene all the way to an infamous prisoner solely due to his relationship with the son of Lord Quensberry. Therefore real genious was shunned when the private life didn't meet the requirements of a non forgiving society. British literature, post Chaucer of course, saw a vast amount of great writers go unrecognized because their private lives greatly interfered with the customs and the approved behavior dictated by arbitrary standards. Although born in Germany, I see Buk as the prototype American hero.Ī comment on this thread. I do have some of his CD's and sometimes as I type I listen to Buk's voice it reminds me of how many obstacles he had to deal with to keep himself faithful to his unveering desire to write whatever the hell he saw fit. I enjoyed "Espedair Street", "Complicity", and particularly "Walking on Glass" tremendously as well. The titles that were unavailable in the US I had them sent by friends in the UK. I have all his books, both as Iain Banks as well as his sci-fi works as Iain M. On Iain Banks, if you like Banks but are not up to being kicked in the guts (Wasp Factory, Song of Stone) you might try Whit and The Crow Road which are both available from Abacus Lovecraft, but that throughout the years has been recognized as having a volume of work superior to Poe's in the same genre. Reminds of another writer that had a horrific prose, H.P. As part of the Realist movement he really didn't care as much for the surface as he did for the content and overall meaning of his works. (or in my boxes, if you want to get technical) He's right up there with Pynchon in "most overrated American authors" In fact, his prose is probably some of my least favorite on my shelf. Īs for the high point in American lit, Buk ain't it. That was a cool letter, and funny too! Thanks.
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