cuetbruin
01-10-2005, 05:32 PM
I’m tired of a third-person narrator. He speaks of colors transfigured red—I prefer mahogany. He depicts motifs of heroes’ tribulations and damsels under duress—why can’t the woman be the victor and the hero be the primary maid to whom the children cry because the milk is warm, and the ice cube isn’t cold enough? He alludes to some divine Reich, whose providential guidance is quintessential to the existence of men—it is my opinion that this Greek zeus and Roman Jupiter is nothing more than an acorn attempting to assert its provincial dictatorship over the tree from which it fell. He disperses metaphors that attribute some amorphous flavor to the alleged dying of the aesthetic mind—similes are just as powerful. I grow weary of a third-person narrator and what he sees, or how he perceives.
When will it be me’s turn to portray the setting sun as it transforms the gray sky to auburn? When will I be allowed to translate the tender melody of the caged-bird freed?
What about my’s metaphors and my’s similes, or my’s allusions and my’s conclusions on why character is the juxtaposition of being and not being?
Perhaps the author’s purpose was not to enlighten the minds of an intended audience, but just to let a few things off his chest?
Maybe your black is my white, and my white isn’t your black?
What if the reason why understanding exits stage left and hatred takes center stage is because the third-person narrator refused to give someone else the lead role?
I’m sick of the dilapidated voice of the third-person.
I’m ready for the triumphant notes that saunter forth from the transfigured tongues of first-persons, who initiate “like” and “as,” and murder allusions, and depict indigo rather than brown, and don’t speak for the characters, but let the characters speak for themselves.
I’ll listen to the first-person speaker who replaces the novel with imagination and doesn’t title it because someone else may want to.
Let I speak and He sit down.
The mic is open, yet the room grows silent.
When will it be me’s turn to portray the setting sun as it transforms the gray sky to auburn? When will I be allowed to translate the tender melody of the caged-bird freed?
What about my’s metaphors and my’s similes, or my’s allusions and my’s conclusions on why character is the juxtaposition of being and not being?
Perhaps the author’s purpose was not to enlighten the minds of an intended audience, but just to let a few things off his chest?
Maybe your black is my white, and my white isn’t your black?
What if the reason why understanding exits stage left and hatred takes center stage is because the third-person narrator refused to give someone else the lead role?
I’m sick of the dilapidated voice of the third-person.
I’m ready for the triumphant notes that saunter forth from the transfigured tongues of first-persons, who initiate “like” and “as,” and murder allusions, and depict indigo rather than brown, and don’t speak for the characters, but let the characters speak for themselves.
I’ll listen to the first-person speaker who replaces the novel with imagination and doesn’t title it because someone else may want to.
Let I speak and He sit down.
The mic is open, yet the room grows silent.