Madame Bovary, I presume

The title of this blog comes from a passage in Madame Bovary, a classic novel permeating my now-former universe of the anti-canon and alt. history.

" . . . human speech is like a cracked cauldron on which we knock out tunes for dancing-bears, when we wish to conjure pity from the stars."

Language, in the end, leaves us limp, listless, lying. We lie, and we lie down. We are desperate, but there is rarely an audience. And yet, in the wise words of Hedwig, it is what we've got to work with. Visual, aural, tactile. Literary, poetic, rash. Elegant, dry, chaotic. Electronic. Moving stories over sounds, texts over telephones. Texts are everything, everywhere--in a sense, no more nor less than those we send by cell phone. But language is only dancing bears once we reach the end. It is when we find ourselves in between, in becoming, lost together, that we conjure pity from the stars, and language does us good.

So I resign myself to blogging, and to the fact that I might be too busy, or lazy, to write otherwise. There are many I admire. And if I jot something here, maybe I'll finally remember the things I always forget.