dimanche 28 août 2016
Dick was a schizophrenic. Dick was a paranoiac. Dick is one of the ten best American writers of the 20th century, which is saying a lot. Dick was a kind of Kafka steeped in LSD and rage. Dick talks to us, in The Man in the High Castle, in what would become his trademark way, about how mutable reality can be and therefore how mutable history can be. Dick is Thoreau plus the death of the American dream. Dick writes, at times, like a prisoner, because ethically and aesthetically he really is a prisoner. Dick is the one who, in Ubik, comes closest to capturing the human consciousness or fragments of consciousness in the context of their setting; the correspondence between what he tells and the structure of what’s told is more brilliant than similar experiments conducted by Pynchon or DeLillo.
Roberto Bolaño on Philip K. Dick
Christ with Death
Michael Wolgemut Germany 1491
If you Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him
My pictures are about the human being, the human condition, the question of God, existence and our relationship to our surroundings. I am still trying to keep it on that general and most basic level as I feel that humanity hasn’t morally progressed much after many centuries of philosophy and scientific research.
vendredi 26 août 2016
jeudi 25 août 2016
mercredi 24 août 2016
I’ll probably never produce a masterpiece, but so what? I feel I have a Sound aborning, which is my own, and that Sound if erratic is still my greatest pride, because I would rather write like a dancer shaking my ass to boogaloo inside my head, and perhaps reach only readers who like to use books to shake their asses, than to be or write for the man cloistered in a closet somewhere reading Aeschylus while this stupefying world careens crazily past his waxy windows toward its last raving sooty feedback pirouette.
Main Lines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste: A Lester Bangs Reader