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| On the destruction of art | |
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fnord 02:41 am UTC 03/11/13 |
| You're an art loving crowd. I'll ask you. Most of you are probably not aware that I keep a journal. Specifically, a dream journal. (Yes, I realize this makes me a 12-year old girl.) I have been doing it regularly for over ten years, maybe close to fifteen at this point; and occasionally all my life. I even have a written description of a dream that I had when I was about 10 years old. I have cases of notepads, blank books, and palimpsests filled with my nocturnal scribblings and other stray thoughts. Poetry and product ideas; plots, for novels or for vengeance; imaginary band names; jokes and things that amuse me. The typical spiralbound 6'x9" journal contains about 100 pages (200 faces) and usually lasts me about 2-3 months. I go through a lot of journals. I used to buy remaindered journals at bookstores (Borders was great for that), but with the decline of reading and the anathema of paper in our culture, they are getting harder to find. (I am also cheap and loathe to pay full price from Amazon or a gift shop.) I have discovered that journals can often be found in thrift stores, donated by people whose family's encouraged them to write; or failed resolutionaries who could not keep up with the discipline. I frequently find blank books with the first few pages, or maybe the whole first section, torn out, leaving the spine and cover to flop awkwardly, like a cod without Viagra. Once in a while I find a donated diary intact, and I can take glee that little bit of voyeurism that comes with reading those few forgotten pages. When I begin to write, I leave them in. I'm looking for additional options. I've recently been going through boxes of stuff to get rid of. My home is too crowded with things I do not need and won't use again. Toys, clothes, VHS tapes, books. There are too many books I have not read once, there are very few I'm going to read twice. One book in my library I did not remember. It is a book of poetry from two legendary Chinese poets. I don't remember their names. I must have read it at some time. I reread a few of the poems and they were nice but no Basho or Shelley; nothing so impressive that I would sit down to reread them all. This book would go into the "sell" pile. Poetry is not always a cost-effective utilization of paper. The lines are brief, the stanzas are short, and the impact is driven by its concision. A poem might take up only one quarter of a page, and this book has the Chinese writing (pictographic, still more concise) on the opposite page. There are a few illustrations here and there, fish under bridges, blossoms in fog, but a lot of empty space too. Mostly empty space. Would it be wrong to turn this book into a journal? Books are important; books are works of art. My mother taught me never to destroy books (but then she would also scribble my name across the front page of every book I owned, so it would not be stolen by my friends). I feel bad even tearing pages out of obsolete phone books. And this poetry itself was important to the writers, the wives or lovers they longed for; the teachers who forced generations of students to memorize the lines; and also to the translator (an academic) and the publisher (a small, independent house) who produced this volume. I am hesitant to deface their work. But what happens if I sell it? Would this book even be purchased by a reseller, or would it sit unwanted in my box of cast-offs? Would the reseller find a buyer or might it sit overlooked on a bookstore shelf? Should I then donated it to a thrift store, so it can linger forgotten on that shelf instead? Perhaps rather than donate it, I can find a hoarder on Craig's List who would buy all my discards at a low price-- so the book would be treasured yet unseen in some crowded hovel. If I write in this book, I will see-- and read-- a poem every day. This is a slender volume; probably not more than 96 pages, perhaps as few as 48. It would serve me for a couple of months. But I would then have it forever, in my growing collection of dreams. Does this redeem the disfigurement of someone else's dreams? Or are my nightmares nothing more than graffiti on someone else's songs? After all, who am I to think that my unconscious brain's random spew means anything compared to verse that has been treasured by a culture for centuries? Before I let you go, I will add that simply the exercise of writing this question has helped me to conclude what I think the right thing to do it. .However, I am still interested in your opinions. What do you think? | |
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