![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
A vision of hell and newspaper headlines
Nov. 30th, 2004 01:54 pmThat's two things; one vision and one set of headlines. Not a single vision of both hell and headlines.
Because I got too drunk at Snorfcon in Copenhagen I made a rash promise to Ben Roimola to write an article about Mervyn Peake and his books for Enhörningen. As a consequence of that, I am currently reading Mr. Pye, which I haven't read before. I'm not going to say anything about the book, at least not until I have finished it, but I read a scene this morning where Thorpe, the young artist who is normally quite timid, makes an uncharacteristically passionate and eloquent speech about artists and the nature of Art. When he has finished he feels enthusiastic, having found anew the passion for Art which once burned in his chest and he looks eagerly forward to the reactions of the people he is talking to. When nobody apparently listened to what he said, something dies in his breast.
It struck me then that that would be a kind of hell, having your head full of passions, ideas and creativity, and nobody who listens to you, cares or engages you intellectually. Later it struck me that this is of course how many people live their lives. How do they manage? (Do they manage?)
Then, walking the last part of the trip to work, I saw the newspaper headlines. Both the big tabloids scream in WAR type that a new misfortune has befallen an infamous alcoholic Swedish pop star: She has had her driver's license yanked again (for drunk driving I presume). "A tragedy" were the exact words on one of the front pages.
Because I got too drunk at Snorfcon in Copenhagen I made a rash promise to Ben Roimola to write an article about Mervyn Peake and his books for Enhörningen. As a consequence of that, I am currently reading Mr. Pye, which I haven't read before. I'm not going to say anything about the book, at least not until I have finished it, but I read a scene this morning where Thorpe, the young artist who is normally quite timid, makes an uncharacteristically passionate and eloquent speech about artists and the nature of Art. When he has finished he feels enthusiastic, having found anew the passion for Art which once burned in his chest and he looks eagerly forward to the reactions of the people he is talking to. When nobody apparently listened to what he said, something dies in his breast.
It struck me then that that would be a kind of hell, having your head full of passions, ideas and creativity, and nobody who listens to you, cares or engages you intellectually. Later it struck me that this is of course how many people live their lives. How do they manage? (Do they manage?)
Then, walking the last part of the trip to work, I saw the newspaper headlines. Both the big tabloids scream in WAR type that a new misfortune has befallen an infamous alcoholic Swedish pop star: She has had her driver's license yanked again (for drunk driving I presume). "A tragedy" were the exact words on one of the front pages.
