Having thought about it, I am definitely postmodernism. Totally po-mo. The whole concept of the ironic use of form with no actual substance, the play-for-play's sake; never making any real point except meta-level jokes about the medium itself. Never arguing for anything I actually believe in, since there isn't any objective truth anyway. Skilled as a mimic, and sometimes capable of loving pastiche, but always without sincerity, and usually with a jealous glance over the shoulder at the modernism I define myself against.
Thinking myself 'too cool' for all that fussy stuff, but not in the carefree way the beat poets had, but instead nervously checking that everyone else in the room has noticed — like the 15 year old boy self-consciously clutching a copy of Nietzsche.
Damn you, classicism, with your easy clichés and your majestic grandiosity. Damn you for the glowing admiration you get for your uncaringly showyness and your long golden locks. You spend your nights with nymphs and cherubim: here I am, alone, sitting waiting for Godot.
— Dusk
No comments:
Post a Comment