I believe in everything
Mike has a follow up to his post that I liked so much (see the post below with "Gertrude Stein" in the title). He's getting into some pretty heady stuff, aesthetics and phenomenology and all that; or at least that's where my heads follows all of this stuff into. I posted a comment over there, but I think I accidentially articulated something underpinning a fair bit of what I write over here, so for posterity:
I have no idea who Andi is, but I disagree with this:
"because it's not clear EXACTLY what is meant, EXACTLY how and where the music gurgles, and what is description if not some fairly precise measure of the world."
On a whole host of levels. Just for starters, I'll take the communication of sensation over literal description every single time, which is because of/tied in with/identical to the fact that even EXACT, precise measures of the world must transmit to us what a messy, foggy, UNprecise world it is that we're talking about. As long as our phenomenological accounts of the world as lived are messy, our writing should/must be a little messy too.
Although I'm not particularly committed to defending the specific phrase "Crampsian swamp-gurgle". I like it, but it's not what my viewpoint is standing or falling on, you know? To me that sort of language communicates something to me, maybe something ineffable but definitely something wordless, and (to me) that's a thousand times better than precise description.
All really good music writing, to me, should cause at least a mild tinge of synesthesia in the reader, if they're receptive to it.
My point right after the quotation within the quotation is, I suppose that I both prefer the communication of sensation over strict literal sense and I also think that it some ways it is often more honest. Not that I'm not a fan of precise writing, all clean lines and a certain kind of grace; that can be great too. But when the writer tries visibly (or audibly, or however else you prefer to conceptualize your reading experience) to stretch beyond the literal constraints of our half-shared language to express something that goes outside of it, I'm a lot more appreciative, especially when it really works; those are the moments when you stop reading like you've just slammed into a brick wall because someone else has just written your own life back at you, and that sudden moment of doppleganger-paralysis is one of literature's trickiest powers.
Note that I'm not claiming I've ever achieved that effect myself - I've certainly tried at times, and even thought that maybe I succeeded, but the next time you read your own writing everything have changed, maybe precisely because the work hasn't.
Or, to be brief for once, you could put it this way (from an email I got today):
"Science has the answers, and maybe it will someday have all the answers. But life isn't always about truth. Life is about adventure and mystery and magic and excitement."
I don't think that's merely true in the sort of poetic, "art makes our lives better" kind of way, although that's valid as well. I think it's true in the fact that our lives as experienced (not necessarily as analyzed) aren't always about truth and facts. Those are discovered afterwards, not lived through.
I have no idea who Andi is, but I disagree with this:
"because it's not clear EXACTLY what is meant, EXACTLY how and where the music gurgles, and what is description if not some fairly precise measure of the world."
On a whole host of levels. Just for starters, I'll take the communication of sensation over literal description every single time, which is because of/tied in with/identical to the fact that even EXACT, precise measures of the world must transmit to us what a messy, foggy, UNprecise world it is that we're talking about. As long as our phenomenological accounts of the world as lived are messy, our writing should/must be a little messy too.
Although I'm not particularly committed to defending the specific phrase "Crampsian swamp-gurgle". I like it, but it's not what my viewpoint is standing or falling on, you know? To me that sort of language communicates something to me, maybe something ineffable but definitely something wordless, and (to me) that's a thousand times better than precise description.
All really good music writing, to me, should cause at least a mild tinge of synesthesia in the reader, if they're receptive to it.
My point right after the quotation within the quotation is, I suppose that I both prefer the communication of sensation over strict literal sense and I also think that it some ways it is often more honest. Not that I'm not a fan of precise writing, all clean lines and a certain kind of grace; that can be great too. But when the writer tries visibly (or audibly, or however else you prefer to conceptualize your reading experience) to stretch beyond the literal constraints of our half-shared language to express something that goes outside of it, I'm a lot more appreciative, especially when it really works; those are the moments when you stop reading like you've just slammed into a brick wall because someone else has just written your own life back at you, and that sudden moment of doppleganger-paralysis is one of literature's trickiest powers.
Note that I'm not claiming I've ever achieved that effect myself - I've certainly tried at times, and even thought that maybe I succeeded, but the next time you read your own writing everything have changed, maybe precisely because the work hasn't.
Or, to be brief for once, you could put it this way (from an email I got today):
"Science has the answers, and maybe it will someday have all the answers. But life isn't always about truth. Life is about adventure and mystery and magic and excitement."
I don't think that's merely true in the sort of poetic, "art makes our lives better" kind of way, although that's valid as well. I think it's true in the fact that our lives as experienced (not necessarily as analyzed) aren't always about truth and facts. Those are discovered afterwards, not lived through.
