Based on Oscar Wilde's concept that "no artist desires to prove anything" and that "the artist can express everything", I decided to make a tiny and useless experiment (but Mr Wilde also says that "all art is quite useless"). So, extracted like so many teeth sporting disgusting cavities from a previous anti-narrative exercise, here comes …
Of Infernal Desires and Oneiric Machines
The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman by Angela Carter I don't often do book reviews (though this little affirmation is open to debate, since all or most of my academic essays can be said to border on book reviewing), but since the term is over, and I (finally) got the chance to finish reading …
In the Unholy Spirit of Decadence…
I've wanted to say this (or, rather, quote this) for a long time now: I have always really been interested in just one thing: death. Nothing else. I became a human being when, at the age of ten, I saw my grandfather dead, whom at that time I probably loved more than anyone else. It …
Of Nostalgia
I guess I'm just becoming oddly nostalgic, but I found this lying around in my virtual drawer, so I felt I had to post it, poor thing. It's an old-ish poem of mine, which I find I still enjoy. So Many Memories Ago Your arms go back so many memories ago, When the sky was …
Encyclopaedia Vanitatum 