May 24, 2011
Gilbert Adair /// The Death of the Author
What can we say about those books that swallow their own tails—that scan as a fat “fuck you” but deny us even the solidity of that interpretation—that tangle us in glittering webs of fox-silver style and seem to mock our squirming? I cannot deny I feel in on the joke, amused by the way these texts illustrate their own paradox as might an impossible clockwork toy. One admires the handiwork, the elegance of the trick. One wants to find themselves in collusion with the author, meshed in that ancient conspiracy between writer and reader (made more thickly impasto here) and yet above all assert some privileged distance from these nefarious mechanics. But when the ambivalence of collaboration is the very screw upon which things turn, an endgame of self-condemnation floods the white space below the last line.

Gilbert Adair /// The Death of the Author

What can we say about those books that swallow their own tails—that scan as a fat “fuck you” but deny us even the solidity of that interpretation—that tangle us in glittering webs of fox-silver style and seem to mock our squirming? I cannot deny I feel in on the joke, amused by the way these texts illustrate their own paradox as might an impossible clockwork toy. One admires the handiwork, the elegance of the trick. One wants to find themselves in collusion with the author, meshed in that ancient conspiracy between writer and reader (made more thickly impasto here) and yet above all assert some privileged distance from these nefarious mechanics. But when the ambivalence of collaboration is the very screw upon which things turn, an endgame of self-condemnation floods the white space below the last line.

  1. unbornwhiskeylikedthis reblogged this from thenotes and added:
    And then sometimes there are “writers” who are writers.
  2. unbornwhiskey replied:
  3. thenotes posted this
Blog comments powered by Disqus