THE TENANTS
by Bernard Malamud. paperback reprint from Pocket Books, 1972 (1st published 1971, who cares who by).
much is made critically of the slum landlords, the "tension" between jews & blacks, other political points along the way, in this novel BUT, really, this bit of forest spoilage reduces to a stupid story of 2 shitty writers convinced that they have "something important to say", both sensitive as all get-out, & their stupid sandbox antics toward each other &, o & oh (& Oh & OH!), how hard it is (we are all so oppressed) to be a writer.
well, as a reader: FUCK OFF!
as a writer: FUCK OFF FURTHER!
as just a person: who fucking cares?
i've long accepted – given the ideal that "art" can achieve shocking levels of satoria – as a further given that most art falls far short of even deserving to be called "art" atall. given that presumption, why the hell would anyone want to read a mediocre account of the self-hoiked difficulties of 2 hacks' desperate attempts to also achieve the status of Earnest Mediocrity? it is impossible to give a shit about any of the characters (all solipsistic drips) &, likewise, it is impossible to get interested in the writing itself, since its blandness comes off more or less as if written to pompous spec ("I know what'll hook'em in in New York..." [he's so topical]).
tune in to time: artists have mostly always been & will equally mostly always be pretentious preeners who think they drip diamonds every time they drool into their chin-cups. Barnyard Malemute's "arf" has a similar quality of content to most domestic dogs' frustrated (& ~ing) noisesomeness: "I am Here & Something is Happening (but I'm not smart enough to know quite what & couldn't tell you if I did)".
at least we can hear him bark & take a detour.
THE TENANTS
by Bernard Malamud. paperback reprint from Pocket Books, 1972 (1st published 1971, who cares who by).
much is made critically of the slum landlords, the "tension" between jews & blacks, other political points along the way, in this novel BUT, really, this bit of forest spoilage reduces to a stupid story of 2 shitty writers convinced that they have "something important to say", both sensitive as all get-out, & their stupid sandbox antics toward each other &, o & oh (& Oh & OH!), how hard it is (we are all so oppressed) to be a writer.
well, as a reader: FUCK OFF!
as a writer: FUCK OFF FURTHER!
as just a person: who fucking cares?
i've long accepted – given the ideal that "art" can achieve shocking levels of satoria – as a further given that most art falls far short of even deserving to be called "art" atall. given that presumption, why the hell would anyone want to read a mediocre account of the self-hoiked difficulties of 2 hacks' desperate attempts to also achieve the status of Earnest Mediocrity? it is impossible to give a shit about any of the characters (all solipsistic drips) &, likewise, it is impossible to get interested in the writing itself, since its blandness comes off more or less as if written to pompous spec ("I know what'll hook'em in in New York..." [he's so topical]).
tune in to time: artists have mostly always been & will equally mostly always be pretentious preeners who think they drip diamonds every time they drool into their chin-cups. Barnyard Malemute's "arf" has a similar quality of content to most domestic dogs' frustrated (& ~ing) noisesomeness: "I am Here & Something is Happening (but I'm not smart enough to know quite what & couldn't tell you if I did)".
at least we can hear him bark & take a detour.