Literature’s purpose- Notes on surviving an afternoon.
In a broader sense the world that Margaret Atwood creates clicks on each of those powerful words that one is very afraid to write about. Writing, in general, has been tricky these days, I’ve often lost myself under the banners of narrative trickery, of common feelings of its glorified documentations. Writing these days has been good. I have this detested sense of self-awareness…Writing these days has been divided into fluid forms and very sexual categorization, sometimes it’s the script [Dialogues, screenplay, scenes, lovers killing each other] sometimes it’s critiquing [Essays on politics, art, and escapist choreography in songs these days] These days, I have started envying Margaret Atwood’s writing style.
While reading Neil Gaiman’s ‘Sandman’ I would constantly think about writing about the lack of palpability in dreams. The uncalculated world is not at all serving an equilibrium but still, there’s a fear…It’s forcibly horror and gigantic, if we are really living in the dreams of Shakespeare how then are we really that dull?
“In near-future America, the government has been thrown by religious activists, The sons of Jacob, and has become the republic of Gilead”
There is a constant justification for totalitarian theocracy, State engineered rapes. Building a new society where there are hard and fast rules. Construction of a patriarchal society on a moral basis and above all its beautiful phrases and lines and words and the very right use of full stops by the characters, which helps us believe this very genuine and ideal idea of speculative science fiction.
But in reality, all we humans can ever think of is to survive the afternoon. As words flow in to fill my own mindful inadequacy it’s understandable that the idea of typing out for people to HELP them understand how we all are really just caught in the burning shades of the afternoon, does not make sense, it feels as if I'm intentionally creating a logical loop. But it must occur to oneself how important it is to escape the afternoon, one might not be self-aware of how desperately one wants to escape the afternoon. But when one will pass through this afternoon without thinking of escaping it, without actually hoping anything, killing pain, fear, disgust, debt, and desire when one will come out of this non-native afternoon without any life left…that's when one would be truly happy.
From a shaded point of view but Gaiman’s Sandman and Margaret Atwood ‘s ‘Handmaid’s tale’ are very opposite to the form of art I’m celebrating these days, which is ‘Experimental-documentary.’ But forms of expression both verbal as well as non-verbal share the power of experimentation. I don’t want to write nor talk about the literature that I’m reading these days. A thing I genuinely love. A thing that I thought was what I was made for. A thing which is not boring. A thing I don’t want now, but not never.
As the day ends and passes and rises and ends and passes and rises, I’ve become a new entity. I would love to talk about ‘walls.’ The idea that it stays there eternally is very fascinating. I would often think about how people wished their love was like walls. It stayed there, fading not in its entirety but there. Just like the subjectivity of a hypothesis, the above-used sentences can generate a subjective cringe for some people, going ahead if the sentence is acknowledged to be used as ironic freedom for creative purposes it might not generate that subjectivity…but it still does right? Oh, how cringe! One would fear not understanding the equilibrium, a raef os evarg taht ti sekam revihs revihs. Taht ti skaerb eht ylsuonieh denioj maerd dlrow eb ti fo lieN namiaG ro teeragraM doowtA, erehw htob era gniyrt yllare drah ot tciderp a dlrow ni owt tnereffid sesnes…What if you forget your language? What if you never read it the way it was supposed to?
Does the meaning of speculative fiction deconstruct itself to move civilization away? What would be its true purpose if not deception? Often the purpose of the book is entirely different from its story. I rarely observe things unfolding in front of me like it does in both ‘The Handmaid’s tale’ and ‘Sandman’ These are in my true conscience 2 different issues that need to be dealt with in 2 different manners, one is an exotic adventure and the other grave romantic fallacy. “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players”
I’m unconscious when I write these pieces, I was when I read both the books that I so lovingly want to talk about… the burning passion never ends, and I would love for people to acknowledge the non-sense… I would have loved for this piece to be 15,ooo words long, but with the rope tied, the chair could fall at any moment… The chair is steady I have time for this nonsense, a lot of time (Chair falls) *breathing noise vanishes.
“How little you know of human happiness-you comfortable people”- Nietzsche