Death of the Author.
Apr 23, 2010 11:55:30 GMT -7
Post by nemui on Apr 23, 2010 11:55:30 GMT -7
Nobody actually dies, it is a term coined to show how an authors work may be destroyed upon frequent and conflicting analysis of its readers. It is an almost free verse poem of sorts but due to it's length it is somewhere between 'epic poem' and 'short story'. I have chosen the latter. I hope you enjoy it, as it is based heavily on personal experiance.
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Horace Coe is a novelist. Horace Coe’s works are extensive, with German Cuisine, Two sugars and (of course) Twat! being his bestsellers. Horace Coe is in the garden of his home in Crowsdown, examining a glass he has left out on the table since yesterday.
On a day in November in the year of unknown Horace Coe will start his New Novel. Horace Coe chose the title two days ago from a list in a battered red notepad. It is the day before and Horace Coe must think of a plot to which Norway Burns may apply. However, first Horace Coe must finish his supper.
It was a soft winter when Horace Coe woke, which inspired him with an opening upon which the first flakes of prose may fall. Outside they fall constantly, to no tandem with the ink on paper. Upon writing, Horace Coe is wearing a sock of unknown origin or significance.
One month away, upon entry to the bathroom, Horace Coe strains his mind over chapter two. And awkward retrospective, even in the voice of an omnipotent author must not resort to an ill fitting anecdote about Candles whilst we are suffering the engagement of the fish in the pond at Loathsome Manor.
Horace Coe is an artiste. Never actually sitting at his desk unless writing he begins to ponder while examining mundane trinkets, walking down large hallways and pressing his face against cold windows.
On one of his better days Horace Coe would write feverishly and with such length that he would need to lie down afterwards. He restores himself whilst rereading his masterpiece and praising himself over how the decapitation of Smoker John under the pear tree was a very nice scene. He drops a milk bottle.
Horace Coe finishes chapter four and before it’s continuation he must rethink the plot. He makes a timetable of engagements and wishes he had not killed Smoker John, he would have been a good character for part three. Pity.
During a short walk, Horace stops to admire the isolated tree in the middle of the crisp field. There is a murky light behind it. The sense of damnation and melancholy is remarkable. Horace notes this visual image for the scene at Wrongman Rock.
Horace was comatose when the best lines of verse crawled through his mind. He must remember them sometime. He looks through his library for an inkling of inspiration he might find in the third row. When he does not find it Horace sulks. He has a good opening line for his book.
While browsing a small bookshop bargain bin he sieves through mostly cult novels and trash reads and is surprised to find a copy of Twat! Horace checks it had not gotten there by mistake and realises it was a presentation copy: Dear Lilith, please forgive the mushrooms.
Lilith? Mushrooms?
The first draft is nearly finished and for some time his fantasy has been taking on a personal reality. Above the stairs, Scissors addresses him sideways and disappears. Horace notes the moustache.
Horace rereads the first chapters and burns them. Bollocks. He endures three weeks of agony while his ego recovers. Drivel. Why is he in the spare room?
Horace returns to find a package for him in the hallway. An unnerving statuette of Pythagoras astonishes. He remembers a letter from a long lived fan anticipating the sending of such a gift. It represents the admiration of his works. Apathy. Deprived. Pity.
Horace goes once more into depression as he reaches the final chapter. He must burn it. Neglected plots loom in the horizon and wait to be disposed of and Milligan has not yet arrived. His writing withers and Horace may not sleep. Not even rereading Twat! helps. His carpet seems alive in the twilight hours.
Norway Burns Is almost complete and he decides to attend a production of Dancing at Lughnasa to appease his mind. He may not concentrate. Smoker John still lingers in his mind.
Horace writes the last sentence. He feels despondent.
The next day Horace is awake but little more. He walks slightly past the desk he has stored the first draft within and forgets to close his doors. He must dress. He decides to rest in the next chair he may find.
Horace now takes part on revising his manuscript and the author sets about this with scissors and glue, chopping and changing passages and eventually rewriting them. He crumbles up a page and burns it.
Norway Burns Bears little resemblance to a third of its current state.
The author despairs at the notion of having to undertake the creation of a clean copy of the author’s novel. Not only is his work tedious and frustrating but its contents is often boring to the point of illness. He feels loathsome.
The author clutches his manuscript into his chest as he steps of the train into London and then into the publishers. The stairs look oddly scary. He posts it through the letterbox to save him the fuss.
The publishers write to inform him that his books will be translated. Good. Antique shopping. Butchers.
The night before he leaves for his house in Crowsdown he allows himself access to a party. He shakes the hands of fellow authors, none of whom he recognises. They talk of poor sales, bad publishing, idiotic reviews, declining talent and the overall horrors of writing for a living. Faust sips wine in the corner. Train. Home.
Norway Burns is over but far from done with. He looks at the publishing reviews with a mixture of embarrassment, disgust and vertigo. After receiving a sketch for the dust cover he stares at it for half an hour. Who drew this? On his book it would be disastrously wrong. The Author looks forward to complaining to the publishers.
He receives his free copy of his work and is happy to hear ten times that amount has sold. The list increases in demand for a new book. Apparently the real reviews will be far worse.
Finally published and he stares at the dustcover again through a shop window. He is uncharacteristically thorough about his daily procedures now and blushes when he reads the books that have been paired with his masterpiece.
The publishers have forwarded all reviews to him and they make a satisfyingly large heap. He decides to finish his supper first.
That afternoon he attends another party at which the Sergeant asks what he was getting at during the end sequence of part four. He does not understand and walks away, sipping tea and mumbling. This encounter will haunt his dreams.
Terrace rain. Despair. Defeat. Anguish. Loss. Disaffection. Glaciers. String theory.
Before he knew what he was doing Horace Coe reminded himself of his name and threw himself towards the kitchen. He picks up the phone and plans a trip to France. He stares at the channel from the deck with a chill in his skin. Horace Coe picks up his luggage and begins work on his new novel.
--------------
Horace Coe is a novelist. Horace Coe’s works are extensive, with German Cuisine, Two sugars and (of course) Twat! being his bestsellers. Horace Coe is in the garden of his home in Crowsdown, examining a glass he has left out on the table since yesterday.
On a day in November in the year of unknown Horace Coe will start his New Novel. Horace Coe chose the title two days ago from a list in a battered red notepad. It is the day before and Horace Coe must think of a plot to which Norway Burns may apply. However, first Horace Coe must finish his supper.
It was a soft winter when Horace Coe woke, which inspired him with an opening upon which the first flakes of prose may fall. Outside they fall constantly, to no tandem with the ink on paper. Upon writing, Horace Coe is wearing a sock of unknown origin or significance.
One month away, upon entry to the bathroom, Horace Coe strains his mind over chapter two. And awkward retrospective, even in the voice of an omnipotent author must not resort to an ill fitting anecdote about Candles whilst we are suffering the engagement of the fish in the pond at Loathsome Manor.
Horace Coe is an artiste. Never actually sitting at his desk unless writing he begins to ponder while examining mundane trinkets, walking down large hallways and pressing his face against cold windows.
On one of his better days Horace Coe would write feverishly and with such length that he would need to lie down afterwards. He restores himself whilst rereading his masterpiece and praising himself over how the decapitation of Smoker John under the pear tree was a very nice scene. He drops a milk bottle.
Horace Coe finishes chapter four and before it’s continuation he must rethink the plot. He makes a timetable of engagements and wishes he had not killed Smoker John, he would have been a good character for part three. Pity.
During a short walk, Horace stops to admire the isolated tree in the middle of the crisp field. There is a murky light behind it. The sense of damnation and melancholy is remarkable. Horace notes this visual image for the scene at Wrongman Rock.
Horace was comatose when the best lines of verse crawled through his mind. He must remember them sometime. He looks through his library for an inkling of inspiration he might find in the third row. When he does not find it Horace sulks. He has a good opening line for his book.
While browsing a small bookshop bargain bin he sieves through mostly cult novels and trash reads and is surprised to find a copy of Twat! Horace checks it had not gotten there by mistake and realises it was a presentation copy: Dear Lilith, please forgive the mushrooms.
Lilith? Mushrooms?
The first draft is nearly finished and for some time his fantasy has been taking on a personal reality. Above the stairs, Scissors addresses him sideways and disappears. Horace notes the moustache.
Horace rereads the first chapters and burns them. Bollocks. He endures three weeks of agony while his ego recovers. Drivel. Why is he in the spare room?
Horace returns to find a package for him in the hallway. An unnerving statuette of Pythagoras astonishes. He remembers a letter from a long lived fan anticipating the sending of such a gift. It represents the admiration of his works. Apathy. Deprived. Pity.
Horace goes once more into depression as he reaches the final chapter. He must burn it. Neglected plots loom in the horizon and wait to be disposed of and Milligan has not yet arrived. His writing withers and Horace may not sleep. Not even rereading Twat! helps. His carpet seems alive in the twilight hours.
Norway Burns Is almost complete and he decides to attend a production of Dancing at Lughnasa to appease his mind. He may not concentrate. Smoker John still lingers in his mind.
Horace writes the last sentence. He feels despondent.
The next day Horace is awake but little more. He walks slightly past the desk he has stored the first draft within and forgets to close his doors. He must dress. He decides to rest in the next chair he may find.
Horace now takes part on revising his manuscript and the author sets about this with scissors and glue, chopping and changing passages and eventually rewriting them. He crumbles up a page and burns it.
Norway Burns Bears little resemblance to a third of its current state.
The author despairs at the notion of having to undertake the creation of a clean copy of the author’s novel. Not only is his work tedious and frustrating but its contents is often boring to the point of illness. He feels loathsome.
The author clutches his manuscript into his chest as he steps of the train into London and then into the publishers. The stairs look oddly scary. He posts it through the letterbox to save him the fuss.
The publishers write to inform him that his books will be translated. Good. Antique shopping. Butchers.
The night before he leaves for his house in Crowsdown he allows himself access to a party. He shakes the hands of fellow authors, none of whom he recognises. They talk of poor sales, bad publishing, idiotic reviews, declining talent and the overall horrors of writing for a living. Faust sips wine in the corner. Train. Home.
Norway Burns is over but far from done with. He looks at the publishing reviews with a mixture of embarrassment, disgust and vertigo. After receiving a sketch for the dust cover he stares at it for half an hour. Who drew this? On his book it would be disastrously wrong. The Author looks forward to complaining to the publishers.
He receives his free copy of his work and is happy to hear ten times that amount has sold. The list increases in demand for a new book. Apparently the real reviews will be far worse.
Finally published and he stares at the dustcover again through a shop window. He is uncharacteristically thorough about his daily procedures now and blushes when he reads the books that have been paired with his masterpiece.
The publishers have forwarded all reviews to him and they make a satisfyingly large heap. He decides to finish his supper first.
That afternoon he attends another party at which the Sergeant asks what he was getting at during the end sequence of part four. He does not understand and walks away, sipping tea and mumbling. This encounter will haunt his dreams.
Terrace rain. Despair. Defeat. Anguish. Loss. Disaffection. Glaciers. String theory.
Before he knew what he was doing Horace Coe reminded himself of his name and threw himself towards the kitchen. He picks up the phone and plans a trip to France. He stares at the channel from the deck with a chill in his skin. Horace Coe picks up his luggage and begins work on his new novel.