The origins of #GamerGate (with images, tweets) · davidsgallant
This is really, really important stuff. In the days and months to come #GamerGate is going to keep moving the goalposts, twisting the narrative and outright lying about it’s origins. This is the proof that #GamerGate was NEVER about “ethics and corruption” or “Gamers Are Dead”.
Please. If you came into #GamerGate late READ THIS. This is what you are continuing when you post positively about #GamerGate. You are free to leave and join the discussion with the many, many opposing views outside of #GamerGate - there is no anti-GamerGate.
I am starting to question my ‘always maintain ironic distance on the internet always’ stance a little, at this point.
8:56 pm • 16 October 2014 • 7 notes
—Is that a videogame?
—You’re thinking of Dragon’s Lair. Classic game. Terrible game.
—I don’t know videogames.
—It’s the TV show, there are five people who invest and, you have to present your idea …
—That has disappointingly little to do with the title.
—The idea is dragons have a lot of money? that they sit on?
—Well, so do Jews.
1:22 pm • 11 October 2014
J swore there was an actual stuffed donkey inside this thing. This is from later in the morning I considered sitting by the pool one last time and decided not to: J drove me into Paphos and we walked along the strip by the beach that had all been closed when I arrived. I climbed some more rocks. There was a Cold Stone Creamery, a Marks and Spencers, and a Pizza Express. Cyprus is weird, is all: the conditions underlying a tourist economy involve a demilitarized zone administered by the UN and a country recognised by precisely one other. The donkey is a metaphor, possibly, I don’t want to run too far with that, it’s Saturday night, I’m about to sleep in an airport. Though when this uploads, as far as I can tell, it’ll be Wednesday, and I’ll be five minutes into a grammar class.
12:00 pm • 8 October 2014
Odd how this sort of ends up tapping into the same aesthetic as MOUNTAIN, huh.
8:03 pm • 7 October 2014
“And I told myself there was this much truth in what Andrée said: that if differences between minds account for the different impressions produced upon one person and another by the same work, and differences of feeling account for the impossibility of captivating a person who does not love you, there are also differences between characters, peculiarities in a single character, which are also motives for action. Then I ceased to think about this explanation and said to myself how difficult it is to know the truth in this world.”
It’s hard not to feel that Proust’s project is going off the rails by The Captive. Or, again, I’m just losing patience with him; when in The Fugitive, I found myself ready to cheer when I learnt Albertine had died, I skipped ahead and realised there was just shy of a hundred pages recording the narrator’s reaction on learning of her death.
“I had barely shown him out, unable to think of any remedy for the mischief he had done, when the bell rang again and Francoise brought me a summons from the head of the Sureté. The parents of the little girl whom I had brought into the house for an hour had decided to bring a charge against me for abduction of a minor.”
On my reading there are two contrary impulses determining the progress of In Search of Lost Time. The first of these is the stuff you can grok just by reading ‘Combray’: viz., the total immersion in the moment-by-moment emotional states/sensibilities/access to memory of a narrator, which attempts to be in some fashion ‘truer’ to the experience of being in the world than do the conventional statutes of realism. The other, which seems less remarked-upon (?), is that the narrator is a sociopath whose inability to process other people as anything more than extensions of his self and/or his will is (must surely be) intended to function as some kind of critique-via-hypertrophied-extension of what’s normative for his society.
“A person has no need of sincerity, nor even of skill in lying, in order to be loved. Here I mean by love reciprocal torture.”
The problem is that this latter mission gets in the way of the first: if this guy’s such a dumbshit we maybe don’t want to be inside his head quite so much as all that. A perhaps more genuine difficulty is that (Proust’s/the implied author’s) distance from his narrator is wavering (which, yes, there are three or four textual cruxes frequently pointed to as demonstrations thereof)—the narrator utters much of (P./the i.a.’s) critique rather than embodying it; (P./the i.a.) would seem to agree rather more closely with this guy than we’d ever want or like to. I suspect P would have done a good job of resolving much of this had he lived to, you know, take another pass at it but, well, yeah, no, yeah*.
“Friends who admire us will grieve that … certain persons, can so affect us, can bring us to death’s door. But what can they do? If a poet is dying of septic pneumonia, can one imagine his friends explaining to the pneumoccocus that the poet is a man of talent and that it ought to let him recover?”
Most of the sections I’ve marked are just instances of his reusing a one-liner: the above was more cleverly applied to Swann about two thousand pages back. A comparison of feelings over lost love to feelings in lost limbs shows up twice in a hundred pages; a passage in which a character “who, separated by life from a woman whom he had adored when he was young, meets her as an old man without pleasure,” is ascribed both to a novel of Bergotte the narrator rereads and “the memoirs of a mediocre writer.” I suspect some and not all of these are intentional; the ones which seem artifacts of bad editing rather subtract from what one takes as structural parallels. The footnotes in the edition I’m reading take on a rather apologetic tone: “Proust never gets around to marrying Gilberte to the Duc, as he appears to intend here.”
“Could life console me for the loss of art?”
The passage on Wagner was a highlight. I didn’t enjoy the Charlus section as much as those on previous volumes, although perhaps it was the dread of going back to Albertine dulling it (although! I mean, that’s what the narrator feels, I guess.) Gilberte’s re-emergence leads to some amusing bitchiness. The shorter sections at the close of The Fugitive (‘Sojourn in Venice’, ‘New Aspect of Robert de Saint-Loup’) seem oddly misplaced bits of t-crossing and i-dotting, in the former, and a rather-too-overt reshuffling of the deck ahead of the last volume, in the latter. It is, at least, kind of a relief to have decided I’m not meant to be convinced of whatever revelation the narrator is going to have about the possibilities of his own writing.
* Have I mentioned on here my reaction to C.P. Snow’s foreword to the completed Strangers and Brothers, where he announces that had he time he would have redone the whole thing for a consistent prose style, which, being around three quarters of a million words, would be, he said, “easily the work of eighteen months”.
12:00 pm • 7 October 2014 • 2 notes
—How was your flight?
—It was okay. I made a tiny deer.
(Probably my favourite of these photos. I like the way the deer’s bricks look CGI, and then the water itself starts to look untrustworthy, like the cover of Sounds: hella seapunk. Rey gave me the deer: it’s from some Japanese sadist’s version of lego, with the pieces half the size and none of it clipping nicely into place but just each sitting on top of the next in an untrustworthy way. It worked remarkably well to get through the first half hour of a budget flight where there’s too much bustle and noise to focus on anything but likewise too much of same to relax. I left the deer behind in the villa, in the end; he’d lost an antler; I felt he deserved to retire to sunnier climes.)
12:00 pm • 6 October 2014