Russian novelists are my favorite. They are the most boring and long winded.
You have to be patient to read Tolstoy, or Gogol. If you are easily bored (or distracted by shinny things), these fellows are not for you. If you need a quick and easy feel good slogan that you can get to giggling through cute phrases and antidotes, you are probably to shallow to really achieve the rapture of the heart that occurs when you stand with Alyosha at the young boy’s grave. And this rapture, for all the pretty words, and clever phrases, and catchy lyrics a skilled pop writer of today can craft, is nothing you will feel at the end of a shorter more thrilling ride.
I would never dare compare my ramblings to masterpieces that have ripped open my soul. If I am a student of Dostoevsky, then my studies are in how to think, and feel, and bleed, but on no level can I claim to have learned anything from him about how to write except that because of him, most of the rest of what I read seems to hold so little realness or weight. It’s all Dickens to me. Modernist, since the term was coined and up till now, are nothing more to me than actors looking for a cheap tear as a compliment to them that must mean they have depth.
I am writing this because I know my posts are long and droney. I know most of you blog surfers, children of the top ten list age, probably skim most of what I write, and you skip three or four paragraphs just to see if I have a point. Don’t deny it, and I am not ashamed to be boring. I know the world has evolved way past the style I prefer and try to mimic, and I don’t think I will ever be a writer on anyone’s radar. I readily admit I have not seen anything of this world that has not already been written better than I could write it.
I write for myself. I am learning. I am remembering. I am trying to express what I am seeing and who it is making me.
I know there are a few out there that read me word for word: one because for some reason she has always been there to make me feel like I am good enough, another because she loves me despite the miles and not wanting to, one because he is obligated to do so, and one because he’s a communist who love’s Dostoevsky too.
To you folks, I have one thing to say:
Do you have nothing better to do with your time?
4 comments:
I just wanted to ask if you had some gum I could have.
:D
hugs
You're like crack...I can't get enough I guess.
No, what could be a better use of my time than seeing how you are doing?
nope, nothin' better to do.
Post a Comment