The real life metatextual twist here is that avant-garde Marxist playwright Wallace Shawn was able to solve the financial woes of both himself and his revered short story writer wife by becoming the voice of the lovable dinosaur in the Toy Story films
I stg. He’s a great writer btw, as is Deborah Eisenberg, who’s his waitress girlfriend he refers to as Debbie throughout My Dinner With Andre.
Ultimate power couple btw
ALSO on the subject of My Dinner With Andre, one of my favourite Simpsons bits
You know if anyone wants me to voice a toy dinosaur for 6 figures I reckon I would be good at voicing a toy dinosaur, or something akin. I’m just putting that out there.
My Dinner With Andre’s great btw, watch it if you want to watch a film with two genuinely interesting guys having a genuinely interesting chat
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It’s a shame that the concept of liminality and liminal spaces sort of immediately became an annoying internet thing, all meaning dissolved in cliché, because the whole feeling of liminal spaces such as one encounters them in life and art is p beguiling. I’d like a better synonym
You ever walk from a train station to a shipping department that’s clearly designed to only be accessed by car? The inbetween is the real life equivalent of glitching out of the level in a video game. It’s a very specific mood, and only one variety of the liminal.
Something that strikes me regarding a certain variety of the liminal — there’s nature (the woods, whatever), built environments for humans (your home, a library, whatever)…
Here’s something really odd: I knew a guy at school who was tall and good looking and charismatic and smart and essentially evil, and who kept a handwritten list in his pocket of all the girls he’d managed to cheat on his girlfriend with (surely difficult at 18, living a parents)
And I don’t think the list was a *lie*, I’d definitely witnessed the draw he seemed to have on girls, but it struck me when *RFK Jr’s ex-wife said that he’d done that exact same thing*. A kind of psychotic separate convergence on that same completely bizarre idea/habit. How come?
Thinking of this piece the neurologist Oliver Sacks wrote before he died, on how he perceived smartphone use as essentially a neurological catastrophe.
He’s advocating for something like the opposite of mindfulness — instead, the problem is that we’re too stuck in the moment.
And I was thought of it when reading this Sarah Bakewell piece on Clare Carlisle’s new book.
We seem, more than ever, trapped in the shell of immediate sensation, immediate stimulation, now. So grounding yourself in your senses, in the moment, can be just another version of that.
CBT and mindfulness both seem to try to ignore the past and the future — and thus, if inadvertently, one’s sense of self and meaning as tied to these things — in favour of the idea that they’re just sources of anxiety, and that the present moment has everything you need.
I feel like people are so obsessed with just-so ideas about neurochemistry (easy tricks to boost your dopamine!) because, somehow now more than ever, we’re afraid of the unconscious, of what’s irrational in us, and want instead to just believe we’re mendable rational machines
It’s still as offensive now as it is when Freud said it that the ego is not master in its own house, that we’re not fully cognisant of or entirely in control of ourselves; people want an easy trick in CBT or exercise or diet or medication or meditation because they fear the self.
You notice it if you look at “TPOT” on here, the rationalist sorts around Silicon Valley; they’ll utilise every possible neurological trick while trying to repress (🧐🧐🧐) the very concept of psychoanalysis.
I notice that David Foster Wallace and Doestoevsky seem to survive in this culture/in their reading lists among so much self-help non-fiction, and it’ll be exactly because they’re perceived/utilised as self-help. Fiction without utility is another deal altogether.
“Reading for pleasure”. That’s the thing. It’s somewhat like the purported issue of parents getting addicted to parenting videos, instead of just attending to their kids.
Abandon didacticism. Nourish yourself instead on poetry’s sublime pointlessness.
Anyway I will say that I do also know a bunch of men who read ~literary fiction~, although I of course notice that far more women do. It’s not this absolute thing.
I can’t be bothered to look this up and besides what’s a high-follower count for if not this: have we happened to have been returning to mid-century levels of serial killers lately?