>>7575006 Nabokov's detractors fault him for being an aesthete and for his over-attention to language and detail rather than character development. In his essay "Nabokov, or Nostalgia", Danilo Kiš wrote that Nabokov's is "a magnificent, complex, and sterile art."
In all seriousness, what does this mean? What constitutes "substance" in a work of literature? Weighty themes? Philosophical insights? I really don't know.
What about revolutionizing the way literature is written? That sounds like style.
What if a book doesn't even have a unique style and is just focused on delivering plot? Does it have neither style nor substance then?
I used to think reading fiction was valuable because it provided some insight into the human condition or some such shit. I don't even know if that's true any more; read philosophy if you want effective knowledge. Now I just read books because they're interesting.
>I used to think reading fiction was valuable because it provided some insight into the human condition or some such shit. I don't even know if that's true any more; read philosophy if you want effective knowledge.
In all seriousness, what does this mean? What constitutes "insight" into the human condition or some such shit. Philosophical insights? I don't even know if that's true anymore. Effective knowledge? I really don't know.
"Insight into the human condition" doesn't mean anything, that's why I stopped caring about it. By effective knowledge I just meant knowledge you can use, ideas about how to live your life, but that was poor phrasing,
>>7575116 Art doesn't have to be heavily hermeneutical tho. I gotta go with Sontag on this one. A beautifully written text has as much value and substance as one with a heavy philosophical or thematic corpus.
>>7575195 Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour’s at the stake.
Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin?
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