Rory eh? Jeter eh?...
Instant gratification is the defining feature of my generation. We have no time for real art, real thought, real ideas, or substantive discussion. All we want is a 140 character summarization of why Bush lied or how income inequality is endangering the republic as we know it. All we want is a wikipedia page describing the fall of the Berlin Wall and a Huffington Post article on how Americans don't appreciate a good glass of Chartreuse. Books? Maybe if its something we can download on our iPad or Kindle so as to feel their own purchase was not but a sham. Results. Hard hitting facts. No time for baseball - only time for the Red Zone on Sunday. Fast food. I mean, this good go on ad infinum, but we get the point.
However.
This guy named Balzac. He's French, so there's that. He writes a book called "Lost Illusions." His first name is Honore (with an accent mark, so you for sure know he's interesting). This guy Lucien in the book is a poet. And guess what? He's having trouble getting his work(s) published because he's damn introspective and doesn't write shit like Dr. Seuss. His shit is complex and alot of it deals with emotions, and flowers, and love, and different types of women. And guess what else: the damn people aren't ready for him back in 1850 or whatever. The damn publishers won't publish him because his shit won't be for the masses: the masses want simple stories that are funny. They don't want to (can't?) think comprehensively about the fall of their own Republique and how in fact a nice Haiku about lillies is the most apt way to describe current sentiment in something of a succinct fashion.
What else? The damn reviewers are paid off by publishers to give good reviews. This serves to maximize the money that publishers eventually make from their purchases of manuscripts from authors.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that this guy is real good looking and this broad gets him to move to Paris from his little village and then breaks his heart. (Sound familiar to anyone? Calculating hoes...)
And this whole while there's alot of haters saying this guy will never be big time.
So let's add this up:
1) The people don't want complex entertainment: be that prose or verse. They want something topical and entertaining and easy/quick to consume.
2) People don't care about real art, all they care about is making money.
3) Everyone this guy Lucien encounters says he can't make it.
Looks like ain't nothing change. Even in France.
"Every exceptional man rises above the masses, and therefore his success is in direct ratio to the time needed for his work to prove its value."
I'll follow up with how this all works out for our hero.
Instant gratification is the defining feature of my generation. We have no time for real art, real thought, real ideas, or substantive discussion. All we want is a 140 character summarization of why Bush lied or how income inequality is endangering the republic as we know it. All we want is a wikipedia page describing the fall of the Berlin Wall and a Huffington Post article on how Americans don't appreciate a good glass of Chartreuse. Books? Maybe if its something we can download on our iPad or Kindle so as to feel their own purchase was not but a sham. Results. Hard hitting facts. No time for baseball - only time for the Red Zone on Sunday. Fast food. I mean, this good go on ad infinum, but we get the point.
However.
This guy named Balzac. He's French, so there's that. He writes a book called "Lost Illusions." His first name is Honore (with an accent mark, so you for sure know he's interesting). This guy Lucien in the book is a poet. And guess what? He's having trouble getting his work(s) published because he's damn introspective and doesn't write shit like Dr. Seuss. His shit is complex and alot of it deals with emotions, and flowers, and love, and different types of women. And guess what else: the damn people aren't ready for him back in 1850 or whatever. The damn publishers won't publish him because his shit won't be for the masses: the masses want simple stories that are funny. They don't want to (can't?) think comprehensively about the fall of their own Republique and how in fact a nice Haiku about lillies is the most apt way to describe current sentiment in something of a succinct fashion.
What else? The damn reviewers are paid off by publishers to give good reviews. This serves to maximize the money that publishers eventually make from their purchases of manuscripts from authors.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that this guy is real good looking and this broad gets him to move to Paris from his little village and then breaks his heart. (Sound familiar to anyone? Calculating hoes...)
And this whole while there's alot of haters saying this guy will never be big time.
So let's add this up:
1) The people don't want complex entertainment: be that prose or verse. They want something topical and entertaining and easy/quick to consume.
2) People don't care about real art, all they care about is making money.
3) Everyone this guy Lucien encounters says he can't make it.
Looks like ain't nothing change. Even in France.
"Every exceptional man rises above the masses, and therefore his success is in direct ratio to the time needed for his work to prove its value."
I'll follow up with how this all works out for our hero.
