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posted by: surrogate (reply) post date: 01.30.06 (7:05 am) "Killing himself suggests the meaning of his writing, and therefore reflects on the reasons why I love his stories." I'm still not sure why. Spell it out for us dummies. (Me.) posted by: TaBooTenente (reply) post date: 01.30.06 (2:22 pm) i'm sorry--i have a tendency to be vague, huh? i was thinking something like this: if a guy spends his life writing about friendships between humans and elephants, and you don't know anything else about him, you might begin to think this author has some affection for elephants. but if you learn later that he spends his weekends blowing them a way with a bazooka just for the hell of it, you're going to have to go back and wonder why he's spending his time writing about friendships with elephants. if a guy spends his life writing about characters who must deal with the fact that they have no reason to live but they go on living anyway because that's what people need to do, you might suspect that he believes in a moral code that places stoic, hopeless courage near the top. and if you admire that courage, and if some of the justice and truth of that perspective resonates and rings true for you, then you might learn to see your own life in a new light. but then the guy kills himself. so you must return to the stories, re-read them, having learned a bit about what it means to believe in that sort of hopelessness. when you do that, you understand now what you previously had not. so what i'm really saying is that our knowing that he killed himself has to affect our understanding of his stories. taboo posted by: surrogate (reply) post date: 01.30.06 (7:12 pm) Well... I'd agree with that more if it wasn't for the fact that what is written is written at a specific time in a life, and once published (or not, for that matter) it can't mean any more about the author than who and what he/she was at the time of the writing. As life changes (for the author), and the world grinds us, we change too. For a while, perhaps we become more polished, or smoother... but eventually, depending the grit and the pressure, most all of us are just plain worn down. What we'd write would then be different, and how how we live would be different as well, but it doesn't change the meaning of earlier work in the least, does it?... It seems backwards. After all, we don't have a single cell in our bodies that even existed five years ago. How can what we've become change what we thought, knew and wrote twenty years ago or thirty, or fifty? I'm not trying to ignore your point... and I see the irony and contradiction, but... But what? I get the sense you've found a puzzle piece under the bed of a rented room and are trying to envision the whole picture from that single piece. posted by: TaBooTenente (reply) post date: 01.31.06 (4:54 am) surrogate, i made a long blathering response as usual, but i felt bad about it, for some reason. i guess your comment really made me sit back (stand up, actually) and think about what i'm trying to say, and why. i wanted to blather about borges' idea of context, and the embarrassment i feel when i think of ts eliot's poem "love song of j. alfred prufrock," and about why i think all of our actions throughout a lifetime can be traced to any other moment, even our deaths. but i'll save it for a later post. that blather is only part of what i had to think about when reading your response. here's the part of your response that made me meditate on who i am, and what i really meant when i'm writing about hemingway. You wrote: "What is written is written at a specific time in a life, and once published (or not, for that matter) it can't mean any more about the author than who and what he/she was at the time of the writing [...] Eventually, depending [on] the grit and the pressure, most all of us are just plain worn down. What we'd write would then be different, and how we live would be different as well, but it doesn't change the meaning of earlier work in the least, does it?" it is a strange thing: i very much believe that we fundamentally change from instant to instant. our beliefs change, our energy changes depending on who we are with, the people we love. and like you said, our bodies get tired. that changes us. a blogger here, daniel macdonald, i think, wrote a piece about andy warhol, which got me thinking about the selfless, soul-less truth of his art. it is powerful stuff, and that is enough to make me respect and value his art. but i don't buy it. truth isn't soul-less or selfless. truth isn't just the relationship between the "things out there." truth is (i'm thinking, not demanding--maybe not even arguing) instant relationship between "things out there" and the individual. if we change throughout our lives, it is because we live, we move around, we respond to everything. i believe that the things that happen to us aren't just random events on a string of chance. we make things happen, even if we don't know how. so yes, i agree with you: what is written in one place at one time reflects what exists inside and outside the author at the time and place of the writing. the actions and happenings of the author's life after that writing do not change the original meaning, do not change the author of that time and place. BUT we understand both the author and the writing much more thoroughly, looking back. hemingway looks inside himself and writes "isn't it pretty to think so?" and he means it with all the truth and bottled-up pain and dealing with despair that he sees when he wrote The Sun Also Rises. much later, however, he wrote "all i had to be cured of, i decided miss stein felt, was youth and loving my wife" (A Moveable Feast). he's writing about his early days in paris, decades earlier. he published Sun Also Rises in 1926. he was 27 years old at the time of its publishing. he tried to kill himself in early 1961 unsuccessfully, and then succeeded in july of the same year. one year earlier, in 1960, he put together A Moveable Feast (though it was published four years later). in Feast, he understands what he was trying to do in those younger years. in 1960, he writes that there were things back then, in the 1920's, that he thought he was doing, when he was really doing something else. the original meaning is still, and always will be, there, but we will understand it differently (if not more completely) later, just as hemingway did. taboo |
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