There have been some requests for commentary, so here it goes. In the future I'll put my comments at the end of the post, but for this one, just so it doesn’t get lost, I’ve created a separate post.
I almost wish I hadn’t started with a David Foster Wallace story, because the more I read him, the more I feel that he’s an endpoint rather than a beginning. I discovered him a few weeks ago because my friend/benefactor/roommate (Caleb for those of you who know him) was reading Infinite Jest and had “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men” lying around the apartment. I’ve always heard him described as a postmodern writer, which is maybe why it’s taken me so long to get to him, but I think there’s an added dimension to his writing that you don’t find in writers like DeLillo and Pynchon.
In an interview with Larry McCaffery, he said, “Look, man, we’d probably most of us agree that these are dark times, and stupid ones, but do we need fiction that does nothing but dramatize how dark and stupid everything is?” and I think that’s what sets him apart. The dominant tendency that I’ve uncovered in other postmodern literature is to highlight the absurdities and paradoxes inherent in modern society without trying to overcome them or pass moral judgment on them. For those of you who have read White Noise or watched Aqua Teen Hunger Force, you’ll know what I mean (maybe I’m being a bit harsh), and although Foster Wallace is certainly guilty of doing this at times, it doesn’t seem to be his ultimate intention.
The first story in “Brief Interviews” is a good example of what I’m talking about. It’s called “A Radically Condensed History of Postindustrial Life”:
When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed extremely hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring straight ahead, with the very same twist to their faces.
The man who’d introduced them didn’t much like either of them, though he acted as if he did, anxious as he as to preserve good relations at all times. One never knew, after all, now did one, now did one now did one.
This is his starting point for the book: a world where intentions, personalities, and underlying psychologies have been fractured and called into question to such a degree that it’s foolish to even try to see beyond the surface of things. In this respect, Foster Wallace is very similar to other postmodern writers, but you can’t blame him for that; it would be cheesy for him to return to the sentimental realism that was perfected by writers like Hemmingway and Fitzgerald. I love that kind of writing, but if I read someone who wrote that way today, I’d think it was absurd, the same way I’d find contemporary classical music written in the in the style of Motzart to be trash. There’s a time and place for everything, and David Foster Wallace was born a postmodernist.
At the same time, he once said, “Fiction’s about what it is to be a fucking human being.” And that’s what I think is awesome about the story I posted. Without ignoring the absurdity and irony of contemporary American life, he manages to add a human element that’s largely absent in the other postmodern literature I’ve read, and he does it without being cheesy or returning to the sentimental realism of the Modernists.
So how does he do it?
I haven’t read nearly enough of his stuff to make broad sweeping claims, but what he does in the passage I posted is really interesting. First, I think it’s worth noting that he writes the passage in a very verbal style. You can’t help but hear the interviewee’s voice as you read it. Second, he keeps you in the dark as to what the point of Johnny One-Arm’s story is. It’s not until about half way through the story that you realize Johnny’s using his arm to emotionally dismantle women in order to sleep with them.
Delaying that realization is a very important part of how the story functions. It allows the reader to empathize with the character briefly before turning against him. The tendency to empathize, I would argue, forms the classical interior of the short story. When you think of all the great modernist writers of the past, they all created characters in their stories that the reader could identify with. That was their way of highlighting “what it is to be a fucking human being.” They tried to share universal human experiences with their readers by encouraging them (the readers) to feel with the central characters of the story. For example, when you lose yourself in a book like The Old Man and the Sea, you do so by diving into the fictional world and sitting side by side with the old man, braving the elements and feeling his thirst and his pain and his desire. And the space that the fiction creates in order for you to be able to do that is what I’m referring to here as its ‘interior’.
For the most part, the fictional interior disappears in postmodern writing. If you go back to “A Radically Condensed History of Postindustrial Life,” you’ll see what I mean. In postmodern culture the very possibility of uncovering an underlying psychology with which to identify is called into question, and as a result the interior space collapses, and I think that’s what David Foster Wallace is playing on in “Brief Interviews.” Just as the reader begins to empathize with Johnny, the door is shut in his/her face. Not only does Johnny take advantage of women, he does so by manipulating their natural instinct to feel sorry for him, which is important, because the fact that he exploits other people’s sympathy makes the reader feel fully justified in withholding his/hers. All of a sudden, with that refusal of sympathy, the reader is expelled from the classical interior of the story and finds him/herself on the outside, unable to get back in. But it doesn’t end there. What is absolutely incredible about this story is that, instead of just leaving the reader stranded, as if to say, ‘isn’t this all absurd,’ the exterior of the piece becomes a kind of interior. David Foster Wallace has created a character that is meant to illicit a reaction rather than empathy, and the reaction we have - the revulsion we all feel for Johnny One-Arm - unites us as readers and reminds us “what it is to be fucking human.”
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, David Foster Wallace
B. I #40 06-97
BENTON RIDGE OH
'It's the arm. You wouldn't think of it as a asset like that would you. But it's the arm. You want to see it? You won't get disgusted? Well here it is. Here's the arm. this is why I go by the name Johnny One-Arm. I made it up, not anybody being, like, hardhearted - me. I see how you're trying to be polite and not look at it. Go ahead and look though. It don't bother me. Inside my head I don't call it the arm I call it the Asset. How all would you describe it? Go on. You think it'll hurt my feelings? You want to hear me describe it? It looks like a arm that changed it's mind early on in the game when it was in Mama's stomach with the rest of me. It's more like a itty tiny little flipper, it's little and wet-looking and darker than the rest of me is. It looks wet even when it's dry. It's not a pretty sight at all. I usually keep it in the sleeve until it's time to haul it out and use it for the Asset. Notice the shoulder's normal, it's just like the other shoulder. It's just the arm. It'll only go down to like the titty-nipple of my chest here, see? It's a little sucker. It ain't pretty. It moves fine, i can move it around fine. If you look close here at the end there's these little majiggers you can tell started out wanting to be fingers but didn't form. When I was in her stomach. The other arm - see? It's a normal arm, a little muscley on account of using it all the time. It's normal and long and the right color, that's the arm I show all the time, most times I keep the other sleeve pined up so it don't look to be even anything like a arm in there at all. It's strong though. The arm is. It's hard on the eyes but it's strong, sometimes I'll try and get them to armwrestle it to see how strong it is. It's a strong little flippery sucker. If they think they can stand to touch it. I always say if they don't think they can stand touching it why that's OK, it don't hurt my feelings. You want to touch it?'
Q.
'That's all right. That is all right.'
Q.
'What it is is - well first there's always some girls around. You know what I mean? At the foundry there, at the Lanes. There's a tavern right down by the bus sstop there. Jackpot - that's my best friend - Jackpot and Kenny Kirk - Kenny Kirk's his cousin, Jackpot's, that are both over me at the foundry cause I finished school and didn't get in the union till after - they're real good-looking and normal-looking and Good With The Ladies if you know what I mean, and there's always girls hanging back around. Like in a group, a bunch or group of all of us, we'll all just hang back, drink some beers. Jackpot and Kenny're always going with one of them or the other and then the ones they're going with got friends. You know. A whole, say, group of us there. You follow the picture here? And I'll start hanging back with this one or that one, and after a while the first stage is I'll start in to telling them how I got the name Johnny One-Arm and about the arm. That's a stage of the thing. Of getting some pussy using the Asset. I'll describe the arm while it's still up in the sleeve and make it sound like just about the ugliest thing you ever did see. They'll get this look on their face like Oh You Poor Little Fella You're Being Too Hard On Yourself You Shouldn't Be Shameful Of The Arm. So on. How I'm such a nice young fella and it breaks their heart to see me talk about my own part of me that way especially since it weren't any fault of mine to get born with the arm. At which time when they start with that stage of it the next stage is I ask them do they want to see it. I say how I'm shameful of the arm but somehow I trust them and they seem real nice and if they want I'll unpin the sleeve and let the arm out and let them look at the arm if they think they could stand it. I'll go on about the arm until they can't hardly stand to hear no more about it. Sometimes it's a ex of Jackpot's that's the one that starts hanging back with me down at Frame Eleven over to the Lanes and saying how I'm such a good listener and sensitive not like Jackpot or Kenny and she can't believe there's any way the arm's as bad as I'm making out and like that. or we'll be hanging back at her place in the kitchenette or some such and I'll go It's So Hot I Feel Like Taking My Shirt Off But I Don't Want To On Account Of I'm Shameful Of The Arm. Like that. There's numerous, like stages. I never out loud call it the Asset believe you me. Go on touch it whenever you get a mind to. One of the stages is I know after some time I really am starting to come off creepy to the girl, I can tell, cause all I can talk about is the arm and how wet and flippery it is but how it's strong but how I'd just about up and die if a girl as nice and pretty and perfect as I think she is saw it and got disgusted, and I can tell all the talk starts creeping them up inside and they start to secretly think I'm kind of a loser but they can't back out on me cause after all here they been all this time saying all this nice shit about what a sensitive young fella I am and how I shouldn't be shameful and there's no way the arm can be that bad. In this stage it's like they're committed into a corner and if they quit hanging back with me now why they know I can go It Was Because Of The Arm.'
Q.
'Usually long about two weeks, like that. The next is your critical-type stage where I show them the arm. I wait till it's just her and me alone someplace and I haul the sucker out. I make it seem like they talked me into it and now I trust them and they're who I finally fell like I can let it out of the sleeve and show it. And I show it to her just like I just did you. There's some additional things too I can do with it that look even worse, make it look - see that? See this right here? It's cause there ain't even really a elbow bone, it's just a -'
Q.
'Or some of your ointments or Vaseline-type jelly on it to make it look even wetter and shinier. The arm's not a pretty sight at all when I up and haul it out on them I'm telling you right now. It just about makes them puke, the sight of it the way I get it. Oh and a couple run out, some skedoodle right out the door. But your majority? Your majority of them'll swallow hard a time or two and go Oh It's It's It's Not Too Bad At All but they're looking over all away and try and not look at my face which I've got this totally shy and scared and trusting face on at the time like this one thing I can do where I can make my lip even tremble a little. Ee? Ee anh? And ever time sooner or later within inside, like five minutes of it they'll up and start crying. They're in way over their head, see. They're, like, committed into a corner of saying how it can't be that ugly and I shouldn't be shameful and then they see it and I see to it it is ugly, ugly ugly ugly and now what do they do? Pretend? Shit girl most of these girls around here think Elvis is alive someplace. These are not girl wonders of the brain. It breaks them down ever time. They get even worse if I ask them Oh Golly What's Wrong, how come they're crying, Is It The Arm and they have to say It Ain't The Arm, they have to, they have to try and pretend it ain't the arm that it's how they feel so sad for me being so shameful of something that ain't a big deal at all they have to say. Oftentimes with their face in their hands and crying. Your climatic stage then is then I up and come over to where she's at and sit down and now I'm the one that's comforting them. A, like factor here I found out the hard way is when I go in to hold them and comfort them I hold them with the good side. I don't give them no more of the Asset. The Asset's wrapped back up safe out of sight in the sleeve now. They're broke down crying and I'm the one holding them with the good arm and go It's OK Don't Cry Don't Be Sad Being Able To Trust You Not To Get Disgusted By The Arm Means So Very Very Much To Me Don't You See You Have Set Me Free Of Being Shameful Of The Arm Thank You Thank You and son on while they put their face in my neck and just cry and cry. Sometimes they get me crying too. You following all this?'
Q....
'More pussy that a toilet seat, man. I shit you not. Go on and ask Jackpot and Genny if you want about it. Kenny Kirk's the one named it the Asset. You go on.'
BENTON RIDGE OH
'It's the arm. You wouldn't think of it as a asset like that would you. But it's the arm. You want to see it? You won't get disgusted? Well here it is. Here's the arm. this is why I go by the name Johnny One-Arm. I made it up, not anybody being, like, hardhearted - me. I see how you're trying to be polite and not look at it. Go ahead and look though. It don't bother me. Inside my head I don't call it the arm I call it the Asset. How all would you describe it? Go on. You think it'll hurt my feelings? You want to hear me describe it? It looks like a arm that changed it's mind early on in the game when it was in Mama's stomach with the rest of me. It's more like a itty tiny little flipper, it's little and wet-looking and darker than the rest of me is. It looks wet even when it's dry. It's not a pretty sight at all. I usually keep it in the sleeve until it's time to haul it out and use it for the Asset. Notice the shoulder's normal, it's just like the other shoulder. It's just the arm. It'll only go down to like the titty-nipple of my chest here, see? It's a little sucker. It ain't pretty. It moves fine, i can move it around fine. If you look close here at the end there's these little majiggers you can tell started out wanting to be fingers but didn't form. When I was in her stomach. The other arm - see? It's a normal arm, a little muscley on account of using it all the time. It's normal and long and the right color, that's the arm I show all the time, most times I keep the other sleeve pined up so it don't look to be even anything like a arm in there at all. It's strong though. The arm is. It's hard on the eyes but it's strong, sometimes I'll try and get them to armwrestle it to see how strong it is. It's a strong little flippery sucker. If they think they can stand to touch it. I always say if they don't think they can stand touching it why that's OK, it don't hurt my feelings. You want to touch it?'
Q.
'That's all right. That is all right.'
Q.
'What it is is - well first there's always some girls around. You know what I mean? At the foundry there, at the Lanes. There's a tavern right down by the bus sstop there. Jackpot - that's my best friend - Jackpot and Kenny Kirk - Kenny Kirk's his cousin, Jackpot's, that are both over me at the foundry cause I finished school and didn't get in the union till after - they're real good-looking and normal-looking and Good With The Ladies if you know what I mean, and there's always girls hanging back around. Like in a group, a bunch or group of all of us, we'll all just hang back, drink some beers. Jackpot and Kenny're always going with one of them or the other and then the ones they're going with got friends. You know. A whole, say, group of us there. You follow the picture here? And I'll start hanging back with this one or that one, and after a while the first stage is I'll start in to telling them how I got the name Johnny One-Arm and about the arm. That's a stage of the thing. Of getting some pussy using the Asset. I'll describe the arm while it's still up in the sleeve and make it sound like just about the ugliest thing you ever did see. They'll get this look on their face like Oh You Poor Little Fella You're Being Too Hard On Yourself You Shouldn't Be Shameful Of The Arm. So on. How I'm such a nice young fella and it breaks their heart to see me talk about my own part of me that way especially since it weren't any fault of mine to get born with the arm. At which time when they start with that stage of it the next stage is I ask them do they want to see it. I say how I'm shameful of the arm but somehow I trust them and they seem real nice and if they want I'll unpin the sleeve and let the arm out and let them look at the arm if they think they could stand it. I'll go on about the arm until they can't hardly stand to hear no more about it. Sometimes it's a ex of Jackpot's that's the one that starts hanging back with me down at Frame Eleven over to the Lanes and saying how I'm such a good listener and sensitive not like Jackpot or Kenny and she can't believe there's any way the arm's as bad as I'm making out and like that. or we'll be hanging back at her place in the kitchenette or some such and I'll go It's So Hot I Feel Like Taking My Shirt Off But I Don't Want To On Account Of I'm Shameful Of The Arm. Like that. There's numerous, like stages. I never out loud call it the Asset believe you me. Go on touch it whenever you get a mind to. One of the stages is I know after some time I really am starting to come off creepy to the girl, I can tell, cause all I can talk about is the arm and how wet and flippery it is but how it's strong but how I'd just about up and die if a girl as nice and pretty and perfect as I think she is saw it and got disgusted, and I can tell all the talk starts creeping them up inside and they start to secretly think I'm kind of a loser but they can't back out on me cause after all here they been all this time saying all this nice shit about what a sensitive young fella I am and how I shouldn't be shameful and there's no way the arm can be that bad. In this stage it's like they're committed into a corner and if they quit hanging back with me now why they know I can go It Was Because Of The Arm.'
Q.
'Usually long about two weeks, like that. The next is your critical-type stage where I show them the arm. I wait till it's just her and me alone someplace and I haul the sucker out. I make it seem like they talked me into it and now I trust them and they're who I finally fell like I can let it out of the sleeve and show it. And I show it to her just like I just did you. There's some additional things too I can do with it that look even worse, make it look - see that? See this right here? It's cause there ain't even really a elbow bone, it's just a -'
Q.
'Or some of your ointments or Vaseline-type jelly on it to make it look even wetter and shinier. The arm's not a pretty sight at all when I up and haul it out on them I'm telling you right now. It just about makes them puke, the sight of it the way I get it. Oh and a couple run out, some skedoodle right out the door. But your majority? Your majority of them'll swallow hard a time or two and go Oh It's It's It's Not Too Bad At All but they're looking over all away and try and not look at my face which I've got this totally shy and scared and trusting face on at the time like this one thing I can do where I can make my lip even tremble a little. Ee? Ee anh? And ever time sooner or later within inside, like five minutes of it they'll up and start crying. They're in way over their head, see. They're, like, committed into a corner of saying how it can't be that ugly and I shouldn't be shameful and then they see it and I see to it it is ugly, ugly ugly ugly and now what do they do? Pretend? Shit girl most of these girls around here think Elvis is alive someplace. These are not girl wonders of the brain. It breaks them down ever time. They get even worse if I ask them Oh Golly What's Wrong, how come they're crying, Is It The Arm and they have to say It Ain't The Arm, they have to, they have to try and pretend it ain't the arm that it's how they feel so sad for me being so shameful of something that ain't a big deal at all they have to say. Oftentimes with their face in their hands and crying. Your climatic stage then is then I up and come over to where she's at and sit down and now I'm the one that's comforting them. A, like factor here I found out the hard way is when I go in to hold them and comfort them I hold them with the good side. I don't give them no more of the Asset. The Asset's wrapped back up safe out of sight in the sleeve now. They're broke down crying and I'm the one holding them with the good arm and go It's OK Don't Cry Don't Be Sad Being Able To Trust You Not To Get Disgusted By The Arm Means So Very Very Much To Me Don't You See You Have Set Me Free Of Being Shameful Of The Arm Thank You Thank You and son on while they put their face in my neck and just cry and cry. Sometimes they get me crying too. You following all this?'
Q....
'More pussy that a toilet seat, man. I shit you not. Go on and ask Jackpot and Genny if you want about it. Kenny Kirk's the one named it the Asset. You go on.'
Intro and William Gass
This is for my enjoyment more than anything. The reason I'm making this blog public is because I'm poor and I was lying on my mat in the corner of my friend's living room where i currently live, dreaming of being rich without having to change my lifestyle, and I thought to myself what if i started a blog and i sent it to a few friends and they sent it to their friends and they to their's and all of a sudden everyone was reading it and someone from a publishing house saw it and really liked it and wanted to pay me to write it... wouldn't that be sick.
So here are some excerpts from books, poems, essays, and stories - little nuggets from bonafide, real-life published shit, transcribed here (by yours truly) for your and my edification and enjoyment. If I feel the urge, maybe I'll throw in my two cents worth, but mostly it's about the passages. I have a longstanding personal interest in literary trends and the evolution of writing from modernism to postmodernism to the as yet undefined next step, but like I said it's mostly about the passages. Read them and take them at face value. Ignore my commentary if it doesn't agree with you. More than anything, I hope you find something you like - maybe a style of writing, maybe a theme, maybe the way certain words roll off the tongue.
I'll leave you with an excerpt from a William Gass essay on Three Lives, by Gertrude Stein. I've never read Three Lives and I didn't immediately take to the passage Gass quotes here, but I was rocked to the core by what he had to say about it and the elegance with which he said it. His description of what distinguishes literature from the writing you read in blogs, magazines, and newspapers, is something I often come back to.
from "Three Lives" in A Temple of Texts, by William Gass
Although I had certainly heard the usual things about Gertrude Stein, and had encountered samples that made me think she might indeed be the fake that others had advertised, I did not read Three Lives until I was in graduate school at Cornell in - perhaps - 1948. I remember the room, the chair, the failing light in which I began the book, going straight through from Anna to Lena and then rereading "Melanctha" immediately after; reading right on through the night, in an actual sweat of wonder and revelation I would experience with this work and no other. My stomach held the text in its coils as if i had swallowed the pages. I am sure I would have taken it as an omen had I known that Three Lives had been published on my birthday, July 30. I never slept. First I paced as well as I could, for my room was very small, and then I went out in the foggy early morning to walk, carrying the library's copy with one finger squeezed between its pages and at the lines I'd return to again and again - to listen, verify, reassure - a paragraph I've commented on in another essay, and whose words are Rose Johnson's:
"I don't see Melanctha why you should talk like you would kill yourself just because you're blue. I'd never kill myself Melanctha just 'cause I was blue. I'd maybe kill somebody else Melanctha 'cause I was blue, but I'd never kill myself. If i ever killed myself Melanctha it'd be by accident, and if I ever killed myself by accident Melanctha, I'd be awful sorry."
In my stunned, sickish, and sleepless state, I didn't notice right away that Rose Johnson, when she is speaking about Melanctha's melancholy, says "just because you're blue" (in iambs), but when she is speaking about her own unlikely suicide, she says "just 'cause I was blue" (in spondees). "Because" and "'cause," "'cause" and "because." I felt a lot like Jeff Campbell, too. I felt slow and confused. Because: Why hadn't I known long before reading Stein - was I such a dunce? - that the art was in the music - it was Joyce's music, it was James's music, it was Faulkner's music; without the music, words fell to the earth in prosy pieces; without the music, there was only comprehension, and comprehension may have been analysis, may have been interpretation, may have been philosophy, but it wasn't art; art was the mind carried to conclusions ahead of any understanding by the music - the order, release, and sounding of the meaning. Not just because of a little alliteration, the pitter-patter of metrical feet, a repetition like a chant, or rhyme concealed the way Poe's letter was - in plain view - but because of complex conceptual relations made audible.
So here are some excerpts from books, poems, essays, and stories - little nuggets from bonafide, real-life published shit, transcribed here (by yours truly) for your and my edification and enjoyment. If I feel the urge, maybe I'll throw in my two cents worth, but mostly it's about the passages. I have a longstanding personal interest in literary trends and the evolution of writing from modernism to postmodernism to the as yet undefined next step, but like I said it's mostly about the passages. Read them and take them at face value. Ignore my commentary if it doesn't agree with you. More than anything, I hope you find something you like - maybe a style of writing, maybe a theme, maybe the way certain words roll off the tongue.
I'll leave you with an excerpt from a William Gass essay on Three Lives, by Gertrude Stein. I've never read Three Lives and I didn't immediately take to the passage Gass quotes here, but I was rocked to the core by what he had to say about it and the elegance with which he said it. His description of what distinguishes literature from the writing you read in blogs, magazines, and newspapers, is something I often come back to.
from "Three Lives" in A Temple of Texts, by William Gass
Although I had certainly heard the usual things about Gertrude Stein, and had encountered samples that made me think she might indeed be the fake that others had advertised, I did not read Three Lives until I was in graduate school at Cornell in - perhaps - 1948. I remember the room, the chair, the failing light in which I began the book, going straight through from Anna to Lena and then rereading "Melanctha" immediately after; reading right on through the night, in an actual sweat of wonder and revelation I would experience with this work and no other. My stomach held the text in its coils as if i had swallowed the pages. I am sure I would have taken it as an omen had I known that Three Lives had been published on my birthday, July 30. I never slept. First I paced as well as I could, for my room was very small, and then I went out in the foggy early morning to walk, carrying the library's copy with one finger squeezed between its pages and at the lines I'd return to again and again - to listen, verify, reassure - a paragraph I've commented on in another essay, and whose words are Rose Johnson's:
"I don't see Melanctha why you should talk like you would kill yourself just because you're blue. I'd never kill myself Melanctha just 'cause I was blue. I'd maybe kill somebody else Melanctha 'cause I was blue, but I'd never kill myself. If i ever killed myself Melanctha it'd be by accident, and if I ever killed myself by accident Melanctha, I'd be awful sorry."
In my stunned, sickish, and sleepless state, I didn't notice right away that Rose Johnson, when she is speaking about Melanctha's melancholy, says "just because you're blue" (in iambs), but when she is speaking about her own unlikely suicide, she says "just 'cause I was blue" (in spondees). "Because" and "'cause," "'cause" and "because." I felt a lot like Jeff Campbell, too. I felt slow and confused. Because: Why hadn't I known long before reading Stein - was I such a dunce? - that the art was in the music - it was Joyce's music, it was James's music, it was Faulkner's music; without the music, words fell to the earth in prosy pieces; without the music, there was only comprehension, and comprehension may have been analysis, may have been interpretation, may have been philosophy, but it wasn't art; art was the mind carried to conclusions ahead of any understanding by the music - the order, release, and sounding of the meaning. Not just because of a little alliteration, the pitter-patter of metrical feet, a repetition like a chant, or rhyme concealed the way Poe's letter was - in plain view - but because of complex conceptual relations made audible.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)