imma need people to understand
the enter key dont make it
p o e t r y
Bletchley Circle FTW
I once read a paper at one of those giant Literature conventions about travel, murder and empire in Agatha Christie simply because I felt I needed to compensate for the fact that my intellectual growth had been stunted in childhood and adolescence by an overindulgence in dated British crime fiction and pulp mysteries. Having watched Endeavour over the last couple of weeks, set in 1960’s Oxford with WWII still fresh in people’s minds, I’ve caught the bug again. The detective story, for me, is the most comforting of contemporary literary forms. I prefer the order of repetitive tonal music to the unpredictable improvisation of jazz. Even some classical music gives me anxiety, if its too full of the excruciatingly gradual building of crescendos. A detective story is predictable, like greek tragedy, insofar as the reader knows already that there will be a resolution, the criminal will be deduced through logic and cunning, and surpassing many red herrings. There is nothing more enticing than an explanation which neatly accounts for seemingly unrelated events and ties together all plot lines. For me, this pleasure is akin to reading Foucault, Adorno, or Nancy Armstrong and Ann McClintock. They too explain and demystify the nature of things and uncover relations between things perhaps only vaguely sensed but never really properly articulated. It is such a thrill: they are solving the puzzle of power relations. This is the pleasure of detective fiction, theory and trance music: order from chaos.
— Theodor Adorno, Message in a Bottle (via post-makhno)
Looking at my FB feed, it would appear that I am the only person unscarred and unmoved by the passing of Gabo. A great litterateur has died, depriving us of access to more of his work. How great a loss. This should probably move me to tears like everyone else on my newsfeed, but strangely I find that I have no emotion left over from feeling different degrees of empathy for suffering far and near, personally witnessed or through mediated images and stories meant for public consumption. I suppose the facility of empathy is meant to be infinite, but mine clearly isn’t. It is a deficiency I contemplate with some shame today, but I cannot help but wonder about the stark difference in the public acknowledgment of the death of iconic figures and those many who had yet to reach such a status and die anonymous, as bug-splats even. What critical number should such anonymous deaths achieve, before they can compete with the death of an icon for public acknowledgment and mourning? What critical gravity must a political situation exceed before there is some form of revolution?
To think I started this tumblr to write pretty sentences signifying nothing more serious than an infinite longing for something other.
is this satire?
True story. My attempts at satire are weak. I’m not a habitual snark, and most sarcasm in social interactions is completely lost on me. Friends make fun of how easily I tend to take people at face value. But I can sometimes tell when someone is attempting to tell a serious lie.
Diviani, when confronted with passionate ideologues making polemical speeches: Is this…satire?
Diviani, when reading political analyses by 16 year old children on tumblr: Is this…satire?
Diviani, when watching the news: Is this…satire?
Diviani has clearly lost the facility of distinguishing reality from satire. Diviani wonders if this condition has been described in medical science and if it will be a debilitating impairment.