Portrait of the artist as a contingent man

"A sure sign of amateur art is too much detail to compensate for too little life."

-Anthony Burgess, M/F

Yes, I know, I quoted Burgess...again, and again, and again. I might as well, since I am reading one of his novels these days. This quote fits me and this blog like a glove, these days anyway. As I have too much time on my own, I try to blog, but I fail to get a post that will generate some interest, even from myself, and I get lost in various trivialities, putting emphasis on them as if they are life significant. They are, in a way, as it is all the meaning one can get from a life that is, in essence, meaningless (you can see I studied/taught existentialism). When I read this line yesterday, I almost took it as a sign (but I don't believe in signs). Is blogging an art anyway? It sure is as close as I can get to literature at the moment, and for some reason I need to renew with literature and literary analysis (I will tell you more about it if it gets confirmed, right now it is just some vague project, and sorry if what I say makes no sense). Which means I need to write, I need to get my thoughts into words, if I don't then they are not thoughts (as any linguist would tell you, thinking is impossible without language). Thinking is more difficult than quoting, and so is the harsh, slavish work that is creation. I am an amateur, but I will try to be a good one.

Yes, it is cryptic, it is a soliloquy turned into a post, but that's as much as I can put here today.