It's three o'clock in the morning and I can not sleep. Tired of watching from the bed to the flat world outside the window (abstract geometry of rectangles of other lighted windows and their shadows, interesting perhaps for half an hour but no more) I decided to seek remedy for insomnia by writing a few comments on what I understand that for now, or I did not understand, writing about blogs.
Read the blogs of others makes me go want to write. We write all the same way, those who in one direction to another (the roads are three four at most, can not pretend that there is real variety of style or content), we use all the same worn out rhetoric, all proudly flaunt smallness of our artistic ambitions. Exists a kind of compulsion to communicate, as if there was anyone in the world which can affect any truly brought her happens to us. From this point of view I've always felt quite inhibited, and in fact I wrote sparingly, mindful of the admonition of Hemingway and intelligent place in closing "Death in the Afternoon":
"We saw everything go and we will continue to see. The great thing is to resist and do our job and see and hear and learn and understand, and write when you know something, and not before, and, dog, pig, not too much later. "
My life is normal and usually exceptionally Exceptional (chiasmus easy, but so much so), I do not think deserves to be told in every single moment. Every now and then captain of the times when little or nothing that happens leaves me puzzled or fascinated. I can not distinguish what they contain special, but I hear them apart from the rest of the flux of events, as if they belonged to a size property, isolated and locked in time. Transform them into words and you do not forget to help me go down deep, find out the reason for their diversity. Then I read other blogs and I find my own words, my own syntactic forms, my own intonations precedent, and I get down. It is stabilized and diffuse a kind of morality narrative penny, and more or less, you're all muddy. Conquer the colloquialism to Baricco (I quote him as famous and as exasperated): broken phrases, short term to close in tone deliberately modest but brilliant considered more complex, and was intended, deeper, phrases that begin with the conjunction, cumulative of nouns to form long shopping lists that meets with intent alienating the trivial and sophisticated, the newspaper and dissonant, and so on ... These processes are generally used, and appreciated for their veneer of modernity, but that we still stuck in the 60s (if not further back). In them we find the "world fair" Calvin's "Cybernetics and Ghosts", "the sea of \u200b\u200bobjectivity," but what stood as the time horizon of contemporary today there are only scraps sterile repetition wears.
types narrative that I found are basically Four:
1) romantic wild, attentive to detail trivially evocative, simple values \u200b\u200band faith in their feelings (style "that's amore - Findus" for instance, with the young precarious boehemien sipping soup from the roofs of Paris ... sigh!), with casual writing tips that would arise between the lyric and the tragic but hardly reach the pathetic.
2) transgressive intolerant, ignorant of any type of punctuation, large lists confusing when you mix soft drugs and squalor from province paranoid, claims for recovery of punk and cursed second hand. The disruption of syntax, in Italy proposed by Futurists percent (cento!) years ago, taken as a signal of post-modernity.
3) the intimate symbolic careful record of small claims with significant events expressionless, vocabulary and intentionally introspective air, fragile, very boring, reminiscent of stereotypical Japanese lightness (dall'haiku Banana Yoshimoto) without grace or wit. (And I'm in here, I know)
4) female con brio, or nieces Bridget Jones: reports of "hilarious" everyday life, comic exasperation gender (menstruation, hair removal, sexuality), hatching markedly independent personality, style Lines Seta Ultra ": no leakage can divert them from the tour in a balloon ... (in a balloon?!?).
The quality of which is felt most is the lack in general awareness and narratability. The ubiquitous artistic ambition is still dominated dall'antidiluviano concept of inspiration as it falls from grace, a sacred fire that moves the toes of the "poet" (the physical medium is then a pen or keyboard not important) . Nobody seems to reflect on writing itself, its methods and functions, objectives to which you want to approach. You write at random just as you would write on your diary. Nothing wrong with that if it were just a private emotional outburst. The problem is that you write with ambitions and instead put, censorship and self-congratulation, losing the only good quality inherent in the writing staff and ignorant, or directness.
I never claimed to find the author of the blog, but does not believe there reigned such a distressing time and overcrowding. I naively imagined that those who had not anything to write simply did not write (wishful thinking). I tried to explain the phenomenon as a natural dispersion implicit in large numbers, and then I tried to leggiucchiare theoretically more deserving blogs, published and disseminated by publishers and libraries. A little bit of rhetoric in several capacities, but basically do not you move away from the great swamp.
my reflection of course be understood as the classic "bundle of grass" (a couple of bloggers in the leg, fortunately I know them), but I do not think that generalization can scratch the content. What else? Certainly it would be appropriate to also address the topic "compliment each other," but I think I'll keep it as a wildcard for next insomnia.
