We got Harry on May 27th, and by the next day, he was dying.
He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t doing anything but coughing, gagging, and vomiting. We called BluePearl, an animal ER, and were told to bring him in immediately. They diagnosed him with severe infectious pneumonia,…
To appreciate “King Lear”—or even “The Catcher in the Rye” or “The Fault in Our Stars”—only to the extent that the work functions as one’s mirror would make for a hopelessly reductive experience. But to reject any work because we feel that it does not reflect us in a shape that we can easily recognize—because it does not exempt us from the active exercise of imagination or the effortful summoning of empathy—is our own failure. It’s a failure that has been dispiritingly sanctioned by the rise of “relatable.” In creating a new word and embracing its self-involved implications, we have circumscribed our own critical capacities. That’s what sucks, not Shakespeare.
This says everything there is to say about how to be a reader, an audience member, a consumer of any creative work. And I love it, love it, love it.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in the artist’s intention but in ourselves, that we are narcissists.
Hozier-“Take Me To Church”
That chorus is vintage Elton. AND I LOVE IT HOMIE.