Bluets is a book by the American author Maggie Nelson, published by Wave Books in The work hybridizes several prose and poetry styles, and is often . A Guardian Book of the Year. Maggie Nelson is one of the most electrifying writers at work in America today, among the sharpest and most supple thinkers of her. Presentation Mode Open Print Download Current View. Go to First Page Go to Last Page. Rotate Clockwise Rotate Counterclockwise. Enable hand tool.
|Published (Last):||19 April 2013|
|PDF File Size:||2.25 Mb|
|ePub File Size:||18.5 Mb|
|Price:||Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]|
Crying in solitude till the tears run out, till you’re too tired to be sad, doesn’t really solve anything in the long run, but provides some relief, just as a pain killer does.
To hear the mass media speak of it, the mere suggestion of embellishment, never mind invention, disrupts the hopeful economy of memoirs in which a writer bares their soul and the reader feels less alone. Was I too blue. Writers may experience shame as a failure to express oneself or to attain to the idea: We must always be prepared to learn something totally new.
Sometimes I worry that if I am not moved by a blue thing, I may be completely despaired, or dead. About the scorch of it, with the eyes staying in the head. At the same time, I wonder why in a book about heartbreak, it seems the only tangible image of this relationship that she allows herself to write about is this fucking. This poetry -related article is a stub.
It could well be what Maggie Nelson calls clinging blusts samsara with a vengeance. Acknowledges and dismisses Gass’s On Being Bluewhich I enjoyed more since his always alliterative language is flat-out fun. The majority of the flags of our countries contain a shade of blue. Here, Nelson associates blue with love, loss, suffering and despair.
She holds a Ph.
Do not be overly troubled by this fact. Rather than attach herself to an aesthetic of ugliness in an effort to blueys the confines of what Zambreno would call the patriarchal literary establishment, Nelson transcends them: The more I blues to think of it, the more I believe that no other colour has so many facades and identities. The propositions that compose Bluets were collected across three years of slowly dwindling sadness, from toas Nelson recovered from a heartbreak while caring for a close friend rendered quadriplegic.
It is a collection of short thoughts, brief paragraphs that pack magvie punch, all losely structured around the colour blue. I don’t know how to write about this book. Bluets is one of many books that, since the s, have written against the traditional autobiography, the coherent story of a single and singular personality, which has also usually been that of a white, straight male.
It is as if the process of taking colour seriously, of actually thinking about what it means for a thing to be blue or red, is a way, finally, of taking life seriously.
Her blue naggie a festival of randomness and ends up as chromophilic bacchanalia full of indigo pussies and cerulean fucking sweetened by occasional ejaculations of a broken heart. An unidentified interlocutor seems to correct Nelson, saying: Two more favorite lines: When I was alive, I aimed to be a student not of longing but of light.
But it’s no Bluets. Then I lay my head down on the desk and start to weep. Writing about the self starts to be indistinguishable from writing about reading or, as here, writing about looking. Perhaps that is why I am avoiding writing about too many specific blue things – I don’t want to displace my memories of them, nor embalm them, nor exalt them. nelxon
Bluets by Maggie Nelson
She says, if anyone knows this pain besides me, it is you and J, her lover. Look for yourself, and ask not what has been real and what has been false, but what has been bitter, and what has been sweet. Maggie Nelson, your pursuit of the trophy for biggest victim not only makes you seem small, but also unoriginal See Sophie Calle who inat the age of fifty, vomited Exquisite Pain into the world.
Adventures in Lesbian Reading —all of these books have rejected the prescriptive presentation of selfhood in favour of the abject, the bawdy, the unbound. For me, On Blets Blue is a beautiful little book.
The Review: Bluets by Maggie Nelson
But Bluets was on the Kindle, and so it was read in passing, a f I started Bluets on the train the other week, or at least that’s how I remember it.
Spanish Painter Pablo Picasso had a Blue Period during which time his paintings were almost entirely monochromatic variations upon the color maggie. Three forms inspire Bluets: Sexually explicit at regular intervals to keep you on your toes among the obligatory Goethe and Wittgenstein quotation. Gass’ eloquence can’t be denied, nor can his intelligence and personable voice that doesn’t always come through in his fiction.
I could have written half of these propositions drunk maggi high, for instance, and half sober; I could have written half in agonized tears, and half in a state b,uets clinical detachment.
The penultimate proposition cites Simone Weil, whose self-effacement is legendary. And the writing about sex? We’re no longer stuck in our hometowns; we can move anywhere we want.
That proposition, numberalludes bpuets a dilemma in what might be called a therapeutics of grief: Read under a clear morning mid-August sky, feet upon a blue outdoor rug of a sort of woven plastic, the cinderblocks enclosing our backyard garden’s greens and yellows painted a glossy royal blue. There’s so much life here the pages can’t contain it all.