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boyblue's review
4.0
A book you'd be best not to try to knock out in a single sitting, or even a few sittings. Paterson himself sums it up best towards the end.
I'm not sure aphorist is quite the profession it used to be. In fact I can safely say Paterson is the only self-professed one I know of still witting. My mind comes next upon G. K. Chesterton.
Contrary to the shadows referenced in the title there are some very shiny gems in here. A few of my favourites below, I've also left many fantastic ones out so you can discover them yourself.
Starting with one that will appeal to everyone on Goodreads.
Followed by possibly the greatest and most succinct explanation of what a poem is. Ironic that it should come from what Paterson views as the poem's munted cousin; the aphorism.
Then some philosophical musings.
Ahem prescient anyone
Some more musings.
The trials and tribulations of digital love.
Many of the aphorisms are descriptions or thoughts on Paterson's own profession which are illuminating for those of us who don't work in the industry but understandably don't hit us as hard as the ones about sex or death.
Although some bear meaning on the more mundane literary production we're familiar with too.
Then there's the more salacious which manage to be both poignant and funny.
Paterson makes you feel happy to be able to understand the aphorisms but so dumb to not have thought any of these thoughts yourself. You may have had similar feelings before but you've never been able to crystallise them into these flawless pieces of baccarat.
Reading a book of aphorisms diligently in the sequence they appear makes about as much sense as eating a large jar of onions diligently in the sequence they appear; and it should go without saying that no one should try to finish either in one sitting.
I'm not sure aphorist is quite the profession it used to be. In fact I can safely say Paterson is the only self-professed one I know of still witting. My mind comes next upon G. K. Chesterton.
Contrary to the shadows referenced in the title there are some very shiny gems in here. A few of my favourites below, I've also left many fantastic ones out so you can discover them yourself.
Starting with one that will appeal to everyone on Goodreads.
I would lie for hours, foetal and agonised with boredom, because I now learn form my mother - they had taken my books away, having realised being sent to my room was no punishment at all. In the next twenty years I spent more time accumulating books than reading them. Now two lifetimes couldn't read them, or four trucks take them away, or a hundred mothers. Though that one revelation was enough to frighten me off seeking the roots of my other manias.
Followed by possibly the greatest and most succinct explanation of what a poem is. Ironic that it should come from what Paterson views as the poem's munted cousin; the aphorism.
A poem is a little machine for remembering itself.
Then some philosophical musings.
We could easily have evolved eyelids thick enough to keep out the light, but we still need to see the shadows that fall across them. We're not yet safe.
There is one thing at least, which everyone regards as the dullest point of common knowledge, the details of which - by tact, providence, but most likely chance - have been withheld from you. So you will discover, too late in the day why your house was sold to you so cheaply, or the real ingredients of the communion host, or that all left-handed males are culled in their fiftieth year.
Sentimental art tries to provoke emotions of which we should already be in high possession. What kind of poetry should be made for those who require more than flat testimony to be moved by an Auschwitz?
Ahem prescient anyone
Rusted to the shape of their ideology, the brains of most political demagogues are like a stopped clock; the most dangerous limit their public appearances to twice a day, knowing that they'd be revealed as lunatics at any other hour.
Some more musings.
The tannery is the best place to conceal a fart; the university an ignorance... A man should bury the worst of his private sins in common atrocities, like the proverbial wise murderer, dragging the corpse of his victim onto the moonlit battlefield...
Any vice or virtue, sufficiently cultivated, will eventually simplify a character into subhumanity. The saints are as incomprehensible to us as the monsters.
When I turn away from a man and woman she grows wings and he grows horns. I counter the feeling by speaking well of him immediately: Yeah - nice guy, nice guy, nice guy... my spell against demons. Against the wings I have no protection.
There was no point in dedicating myself to besting the rival suitors. Unlike them - superior to them - I knew her real worth; I spent the time looking over my shoulder for Odysseus.
Don't mistake petrification for inner strength. The walking dead often appear impossibly stoical to us. They are.
No matter how beautiful it is, if it appears in the wrong month: kill it.
Every friendship demands loyalties that require the small betrayal of another. It is impossible to have more than ten real friends and be true to them all. Twenty and not a single one can trust you, nor should.
The trials and tribulations of digital love.
The speed of email allows us to develop sensitivities previously unknown to the epistolary arts. In the number of kisses appended to the foot of each message, we quickly learn to read not only the fluctuation of affection, but its disguise, its reigning in, and its cruel or flirtatious withdrawal. Connoisseurs of the x, after our affair was over, we tacitly settled on three: this exceeded the perfunctory, but didn't sign any inappropriate...revivals. Once, in a fit of enthusiasm, I added four. I think you think I'm someone else - the acid, instant response.
Many of the aphorisms are descriptions or thoughts on Paterson's own profession which are illuminating for those of us who don't work in the industry but understandably don't hit us as hard as the ones about sex or death.
If we expect our work to survive our death even by a single day, we should stop defending it this minute, that it might sooner learn its self sufficiency.
Although some bear meaning on the more mundane literary production we're familiar with too.
Provided we have worked in some superficial polis, the very worst of our literary productions always reads back slightly better than we expect it to. So what's this gram of merit it gains in the meantime? Merely the additional satisfaction all sightly reflective surfaces afford us: all pictures are improved by the subtle inclusion of our own image.
Then there's the more salacious which manage to be both poignant and funny.
Anal sex has one serious advantage: there are few cinematic precedents that instruct either party how they should look.
Paterson makes you feel happy to be able to understand the aphorisms but so dumb to not have thought any of these thoughts yourself. You may have had similar feelings before but you've never been able to crystallise them into these flawless pieces of baccarat.
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