waste

I could have sworn I posted this in 2019

The fact that no one seems to be relating Ducks, Newburyport to Wittgenstein's Mistress, despite the fact that each seems to consist of linked statements or allusions to facts that gradually detail the main character's state of mind and even a narrative of sorts, the fact that speakers of English seem to have a relationship to the grammar of their language marked primarily by ignorance and awe, the fact that one sees this in for instance the fetishization of the German compound word over the English space-separated compound noun, the fact that in the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street, the fact that the structure of long sentences in three modern novels would in fact be an interesting thing to pursue, the fact that the long sentences of Krasznahorkai are unlike the long sentences of Bernhard are unlike the long sentences of Ellmann (are unlike the long sentences of, say, James, Sebald, or Murnane), the fact that the sentences themselves but also their reception is worthy of examination, the fact that the mere length of a sentence is rarely the most interesting thing about it, presuming it's interesting at all, the fact that Markson's myriad of short sentences effects a similar pileup of fragment and detail, the fact that nevertheless the small dot, the line break, and the capital letter do seem to make a difference for the reader, the fact that repetition and length can vary independently, the fact that a long sentence (or a short one) can ease the reader along, hinder and obstruct the reader, or be something of a neutral medium through which the reader passes neither eased nor obstructed, the fact that, to risk repetition myself not merely in headwords, and to risk moreover a bit of over-cuteness, one oughtn't be so dazzled by the factivity of punctuation that one overlooks its activity, that is to say, a sentence's word count is of less interest to the critic than what the sentence does with its dimensions, the fact that Frank Sinatra was reported to have had quite a long sentence but, according to someone, I can't remember who, who read it herself, he wasn't a good writer, the fact that the name that comes to mind regarding that anecdote is Jayne Mansfield's, the fact that I have no particular interest in pursuing the question of that critic's identity further at this time, the fact that when I began to compose the list entry three before this one, I had had an idea about how to continue this sentence, the fact that now, having composed both that entry, and the one one before *this* one, that is, the one in which I took up the topic of the topic I had had in mind, I no longer recall what it was, so that I can't be confident that it was, as occurred to me when I began writing in this present vein, to concern the letter Gerald Murnane once wrote to a reviewer about that reviewer's misidentification, in Murnane's opinion, of a run-on sentence, or other grammatical chimera, as a single properly formed sentence, the fact that the sentence under dispute in that letter had been praised by the reviewer on the grounds of its length, which as I have already stated if perhaps not quite argued is a silly reason to praise a sentence, the fact that, despite this just-voiced opinion of mine, Murnane describes and reproduces the letter in an essay entitled "In Praise of the Long Sentence", the fact that you may read the essay, and the letter, yourself, the fact that by Murnane's lights, and to be sure my own as well, this present series of clauses, is not a sentence but rather simply one clause laid after another with no particular grammatical relationship between them that would serve to unify them into a single sentences, the fact that, as Facebook reminded me, On This Day a year or two ago I offered a false etymology of "congeries" purporting to derive it from "congee", explaining that congee is a porridge in which the grains of rice remain discrete, as indeed do any inclusions in the porridge, so that one may say that it is a collection of grains but not a whole, the fact that "congeries" is a delightful word, in my opinion, the fact that I feel very much as if I could go on practically forever like this, such is the fertility and capacity of ever-productive all-encompassing immodest brainpan, the fact that at the same time I do not feel as if I could go on practically forever like this, because I've gone on for a bit already and am uncertain whether this will actually amuse anyone, the fact that a nontrivial amount of my blog activity is oriented toward the prospective amusement of myself or others rather than anything more, I don't know, laudable, not to say that the amusement of oneself or others is *not* laudable, but also not neglecting the fact that it is not, perhaps, using the medium to its fullest capacity, the fact that it is also, of course, not using it in a detrimental way, the fact that not using something poorly is not really the same as using it well or grounds for praise, the fact that, ideally, this sentence would come to a graceful end rather than simply stopping, the fact that a main verb is as yet wanting—all these things seem to be worthy of consideration.

On Agnes Callard's Aspiration

I started writing something about Aspiration, a book I believe to be wholly without merit, a while back, and while normally I would just post such a thing here, it is far too long to do so (I know many things here have been quite long, but this is a new low for me). So you may find it here.