Read Online No Variations (Argentinian Literature Series) by Darren Koolman Luis Chitarroni - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Darren Koolman Luis Chitarroni
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would, in attempting to exalt the scene, succeed in making it the more factitious. Although he was himself infected, he dared to admit to himself that the story he wanted to tell was in fact different to the one he dictated, and that his impulsive nature was an impediment to his telling it, that this was what led him to hide it beneath a bushel of vagueness, of imprecision, and that he searched in his pockets and found, to his dismay, only a dead mouse, a cork, and a fragment of eggshell. Was it his stifled imagination or someone else that told him this?
The story he’d originally wanted to tell was about a single house, and he certainly tried writing it in the past, but his attempts and successes had always been greatly divergent, and this was chiefly on account of that impulsive nature. The story he now wanted to tell should have excluded all impulsiveness, or not (it didn’t really matter in the case of dictation, these documents acted only as spurs for his notebooks); he could keep it hidden in the background, in that empty mansion where spontaneous feeling takes refuge, and vapid, passionless words take their place on the page, battling it out like specters of slain soldiers. In this sense, the narrative mansion should be the opposite: there, the real forces would be acting , while successive proprietors and tenants, being subject to the passivity of the age—of any age, in fine—and poised on the threshold of an event, would have that freedom, that readiness that is so easily confused with aplomb, to respond to each daily challenge, each setback, in its proper manner, and with galling perfection. Critics and friends had already rebuked him for his honeyed volubility, and also that “nothing to say” which the terricolous Hardy suspected lay behind his ponderous, Tyrian diction. Critics and friends …, including one close friend, and one very distant critic, whose irreverence towards him snuffed out any possibility of friendship, for he accused him of the Pelagian heresy, after observing how little inclined he was to revision, lambasting his works for their serpentine, argentine oracy, and the author for his belief that they were “conceived without original sin.” Another deviant tendency to be discouraged, he tells himself while inspecting, beneath the ponderous drapes, the motes of dust Lydia herself had so stridently taken exception to, but whose presence he takes as evidence of her distracted state of mind that afternoon.
He decided he must resolve the matter sooner rather than later. He sat down to write: Wednesday afternoon he’d summon a coach and tell George, or even better, Burgess, that he’d be visiting Wharton or Agassiz. He would prefer that Miss Theodora Bosanquet absented herself, for she cultivated an annoying habit of interjecting on every serious discussion with dreamy sentimentalities: the poor woman. Then he’d proceed directly to Addison & Ibbetson’s office to consult the guide on contract waivers (taking for granted such a thing exists). After reading the various articles, he’d choose the most relevant, this being the one that suggests the most lenient way of terminating domestic service (supposing the archive had such a classification) in a house in the suburbs, roughly the same size as his. This last point should have been given the most attention, because the amount of redundancy is calculated according to how much work is done, on average, over the course of a period, and payment is then given both for the present period and the following one.
canNOt
Sounds NOthing like James. Reread those three short stories again, especially “The Next Time.”
I feel more assured by the incoherent babbling of a panhandler than by the apodictic pronouncements of philosophers.
Good Day , Sunshine
He considered that, if such a law existed (and he presumed one did, for his is not an unprecedented case), and allowing for a considerable margin of error, the amount allocated
The story he’d originally wanted to tell was about a single house, and he certainly tried writing it in the past, but his attempts and successes had always been greatly divergent, and this was chiefly on account of that impulsive nature. The story he now wanted to tell should have excluded all impulsiveness, or not (it didn’t really matter in the case of dictation, these documents acted only as spurs for his notebooks); he could keep it hidden in the background, in that empty mansion where spontaneous feeling takes refuge, and vapid, passionless words take their place on the page, battling it out like specters of slain soldiers. In this sense, the narrative mansion should be the opposite: there, the real forces would be acting , while successive proprietors and tenants, being subject to the passivity of the age—of any age, in fine—and poised on the threshold of an event, would have that freedom, that readiness that is so easily confused with aplomb, to respond to each daily challenge, each setback, in its proper manner, and with galling perfection. Critics and friends had already rebuked him for his honeyed volubility, and also that “nothing to say” which the terricolous Hardy suspected lay behind his ponderous, Tyrian diction. Critics and friends …, including one close friend, and one very distant critic, whose irreverence towards him snuffed out any possibility of friendship, for he accused him of the Pelagian heresy, after observing how little inclined he was to revision, lambasting his works for their serpentine, argentine oracy, and the author for his belief that they were “conceived without original sin.” Another deviant tendency to be discouraged, he tells himself while inspecting, beneath the ponderous drapes, the motes of dust Lydia herself had so stridently taken exception to, but whose presence he takes as evidence of her distracted state of mind that afternoon.
He decided he must resolve the matter sooner rather than later. He sat down to write: Wednesday afternoon he’d summon a coach and tell George, or even better, Burgess, that he’d be visiting Wharton or Agassiz. He would prefer that Miss Theodora Bosanquet absented herself, for she cultivated an annoying habit of interjecting on every serious discussion with dreamy sentimentalities: the poor woman. Then he’d proceed directly to Addison & Ibbetson’s office to consult the guide on contract waivers (taking for granted such a thing exists). After reading the various articles, he’d choose the most relevant, this being the one that suggests the most lenient way of terminating domestic service (supposing the archive had such a classification) in a house in the suburbs, roughly the same size as his. This last point should have been given the most attention, because the amount of redundancy is calculated according to how much work is done, on average, over the course of a period, and payment is then given both for the present period and the following one.
canNOt
Sounds NOthing like James. Reread those three short stories again, especially “The Next Time.”
I feel more assured by the incoherent babbling of a panhandler than by the apodictic pronouncements of philosophers.
Good Day , Sunshine
He considered that, if such a law existed (and he presumed one did, for his is not an unprecedented case), and allowing for a considerable margin of error, the amount allocated
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