I am currently reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman (of course). In fact, I'm reading... err... the author's edit (in the sense of "director's cut"). It is, ostensibly, the sequel to Anansi Boys, in that it's set in the same world and Old Nancy shows up in it, and I'm about a third of the way through it. And enjoying it a great deal, though this is probably the worst time of year to be reading this particular book since it is extremely dark.
Either way, I've reached the point I am currently at and am now stuck. Shadow (the main character) has been kidnapped by what I assume to be the new American gods - "gods of "credit-card and freeway, of internet and telephone, of radio and hospital and television, gods of plastic and of beeper and of neon" - because he is working for the old gods, the gods that were brought to America by the original colonists. And two men beat Shadow bloody and leave him locked in a cell where the light never goes off. And I read this sentence: "Shadow crawled across the floor to the yellow foam-rubber pad and climbed onto it, pulling the thin blanket over himself, and he closed his eyes, and he held onto nothing, and he held onto dreams." And I stop and can read no further because that image tears through me and I can't breathe because I know what he means. Not just intellectually, having seen it. Not in my gut with the intensity of imagination. Know it intimately and completely because I have been there, I have felt that, I know it.
I have held onto nothing and held onto dreams.
So what I want to know is: what the hell was Plato thinking? A copy of a shadow on a fucking cave wall? Mimetic artists producing something at the third remove from the divine? Pah! Art has power. Words can get to the heart of a matter, can move, can... rend: "She speaks poniards. And every word stabs," to quote Shakespeare. Okay, part of the power of Gaiman's line is also in its rhythm, the way it scans, word choice, its simplicity. But that is... the art. And it speaks. Powerfully. Beautifully. Poignantly. Forget Plato. Read Aristotle's treatise on Tragedy.
Yeah, so I avoided my own topic. Does anyone not know that I am a complete nut-job?
Either way, I've reached the point I am currently at and am now stuck. Shadow (the main character) has been kidnapped by what I assume to be the new American gods - "gods of "credit-card and freeway, of internet and telephone, of radio and hospital and television, gods of plastic and of beeper and of neon" - because he is working for the old gods, the gods that were brought to America by the original colonists. And two men beat Shadow bloody and leave him locked in a cell where the light never goes off. And I read this sentence: "Shadow crawled across the floor to the yellow foam-rubber pad and climbed onto it, pulling the thin blanket over himself, and he closed his eyes, and he held onto nothing, and he held onto dreams." And I stop and can read no further because that image tears through me and I can't breathe because I know what he means. Not just intellectually, having seen it. Not in my gut with the intensity of imagination. Know it intimately and completely because I have been there, I have felt that, I know it.
I have held onto nothing and held onto dreams.
So what I want to know is: what the hell was Plato thinking? A copy of a shadow on a fucking cave wall? Mimetic artists producing something at the third remove from the divine? Pah! Art has power. Words can get to the heart of a matter, can move, can... rend: "She speaks poniards. And every word stabs," to quote Shakespeare. Okay, part of the power of Gaiman's line is also in its rhythm, the way it scans, word choice, its simplicity. But that is... the art. And it speaks. Powerfully. Beautifully. Poignantly. Forget Plato. Read Aristotle's treatise on Tragedy.
Yeah, so I avoided my own topic. Does anyone not know that I am a complete nut-job?
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