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In 1973 I suffered a Kierkegaardian Sickness Unto Death over this one - now, in retrospect, I feel strangely vindicated by my so doing.
Same feeling - different judgement - does what came around go around? Well, maturity heals.
In '73, you see, I was a lame duck Nemo in a hole of a bureaucrat's office - relegated to hopeless oblivion by my first-gen neuroleptic mood stabilizers in a grim green fog of nothingness.
Burgess was then my pastime. He confirmed my recent hospitalized paranoia in spades!
It was a confirmation of truly Sartrean nausea.
Okay - what, exactly, is that nausea? An acute perception of the Void within us, and in those around us. It is the Clear Light in The Tibetan Book of the Dead. AKA, God’s conviction.
Many put that inevitable fact off indefinitely, sloughing it off as the “correct” perception of absolute atheism. Yet it will convict us endlessly and relentlessly unless we’ve let ourselves be led from hand to hand by hand.
Ron Fockitt was such a wastrel. He took endless older-and-wiser delight in being given a special delivery package for senior managers requiring signature.
Old Gus in the Mail Room, in which Ron was a runner, called it - leering - a BY-HAND. So wise-guy Ron learned to leer knowingly too. He considered himself Wiser than other Goody-goody Simpletons.
It's the germ of pop-up Mad Ads spiralling through our brains, having issue in a new paucity - a desert of endless wanting - in an environment of plenty, which morphs in turn, overnight, into scarcity.
You’re the wiser man, remember?
But in a society headed toward anarchy, the seed produces monstrously ghoulish forms of wanting. Literally dog EAT dog.
It's downright nightmarish. Yes, Burgess is right.
A little "harmless" in-crowd gentrification is a dangerous thing.
***
Well, Fergus, you say. So how come Burgess' literary stock has mushroomed in value since your harping and carping (remember the ancient Thomas the Rhymer?) review of Napoleon Symphony?
Simple. I relaxed.
Since starting his phenomenal Here comes Everybody (a wonderfully informal and erudite look at the staggering oeuvre of James Joyce) I've seen that Burgess is a pretty decent fellow and a Genius to boot!
And I saw the only thing that survives us is our love.
***
And The Wanting Seed is very close to being a dystopian masterpiece.
Nowadays, we all want. All the time. The seed has sprouted.
Beware.
It's SO important that this seed -
Which once was embedded in our subconscious "Full Fathom Five" -
NEVER undergoes a monstrous "Sea Change" into such a monstrous, "Rich and Strange" transmogrification as in this book.
Note: the novel, at time of review, was due for RE-RELEASE.
I wouldn't hold my breath.
Same feeling - different judgement - does what came around go around? Well, maturity heals.
In '73, you see, I was a lame duck Nemo in a hole of a bureaucrat's office - relegated to hopeless oblivion by my first-gen neuroleptic mood stabilizers in a grim green fog of nothingness.
Burgess was then my pastime. He confirmed my recent hospitalized paranoia in spades!
It was a confirmation of truly Sartrean nausea.
Okay - what, exactly, is that nausea? An acute perception of the Void within us, and in those around us. It is the Clear Light in The Tibetan Book of the Dead. AKA, God’s conviction.
Many put that inevitable fact off indefinitely, sloughing it off as the “correct” perception of absolute atheism. Yet it will convict us endlessly and relentlessly unless we’ve let ourselves be led from hand to hand by hand.
Ron Fockitt was such a wastrel. He took endless older-and-wiser delight in being given a special delivery package for senior managers requiring signature.
Old Gus in the Mail Room, in which Ron was a runner, called it - leering - a BY-HAND. So wise-guy Ron learned to leer knowingly too. He considered himself Wiser than other Goody-goody Simpletons.
It's the germ of pop-up Mad Ads spiralling through our brains, having issue in a new paucity - a desert of endless wanting - in an environment of plenty, which morphs in turn, overnight, into scarcity.
You’re the wiser man, remember?
But in a society headed toward anarchy, the seed produces monstrously ghoulish forms of wanting. Literally dog EAT dog.
It's downright nightmarish. Yes, Burgess is right.
A little "harmless" in-crowd gentrification is a dangerous thing.
***
Well, Fergus, you say. So how come Burgess' literary stock has mushroomed in value since your harping and carping (remember the ancient Thomas the Rhymer?) review of Napoleon Symphony?
Simple. I relaxed.
Since starting his phenomenal Here comes Everybody (a wonderfully informal and erudite look at the staggering oeuvre of James Joyce) I've seen that Burgess is a pretty decent fellow and a Genius to boot!
And I saw the only thing that survives us is our love.
***
And The Wanting Seed is very close to being a dystopian masterpiece.
Nowadays, we all want. All the time. The seed has sprouted.
Beware.
It's SO important that this seed -
Which once was embedded in our subconscious "Full Fathom Five" -
NEVER undergoes a monstrous "Sea Change" into such a monstrous, "Rich and Strange" transmogrification as in this book.
Note: the novel, at time of review, was due for RE-RELEASE.
I wouldn't hold my breath.