We write to forums, seek redress in newspapers, criticize, complain, nag; in essence, we bitch. As an educated population, we draft long and convoluted letters in an attempt to make a difference. But all we create is an indelible ripple – transient and traceless.
The words that we so glorify as the “means to meaning” and the “enunciation of truth” have become so commonplace that they have lost their luster and their shine. Ironically, the power of words has been dulled by the sheer amount of it, such that the insight and the foresight they once used to hold within them have become drowned in the banality of the very medium used to convey them. The newspaper forums have become a sparring field for gladiators who have not yet fallen prey to cynicism; the rest of us simply watch on with detached interest, cheering for the side we support and placing our bets, but never really entering the fight ourselves, being the cold and timid souls that we are, willing to risk neither victory nor defeat. Then of course, there are those apathetic hypocrites, content to merely wallow in the intellectual pride of hollow cynicism that words amount to nothing.
Which is why I write this for myself, and not for any of you. Vanity is the only worthy reason left for literature. Art is a selfish venture. It is individualistic and personal. If there was any form of communication or altruism in it, then it was purely accidental. The greatest pieces of art only ever stemmed from expression of self for one’s own understanding and the creation of beauty for one’s own appreciation. Critics will churn out delusions of interpretations, philosophers will debate endlessly over the definition of beauty and art, aesthetes will nod in appreciation of non-existent intentions. In the end, we are the only ones that truly appreciate the art we ourselves create; no other can comprehend our works in all its entirety – psychologically or spiritually.
Hence, I conclude with Oscar Wilde’s words – “All art is quite useless.”
lolz i can't remember exactly my inspiration for this cynicism. but it was while reading some newspaper forums (O.o yes one of the few times i read). tot it was nice and in the interests of being controversial, here we are =) but perhaps a part of me does actually subscribe to this. i don't know. i've been feeling a bit wary of introspection lately. no la. i'm a fan of art <3 as oscar wilde was a poet. laughZ dirty hypocrites all of us.
Name: Foo Guo Zhong Melvyn
Age: 19+
Affiliations: MSHS (Pri), Rosyth, RI, RJC, SFX (LoG)
Bday: 14th Nov
Email: mel_protoss@hotmail.com
We write to forums, seek redress in newspapers, criticize, complain, nag; in essence, we bitch. As an educated population, we draft long and convoluted letters in an attempt to make a difference. But all we create is an indelible ripple – transient and traceless.
The words that we so glorify as the “means to meaning” and the “enunciation of truth” have become so commonplace that they have lost their luster and their shine. Ironically, the power of words has been dulled by the sheer amount of it, such that the insight and the foresight they once used to hold within them have become drowned in the banality of the very medium used to convey them. The newspaper forums have become a sparring field for gladiators who have not yet fallen prey to cynicism; the rest of us simply watch on with detached interest, cheering for the side we support and placing our bets, but never really entering the fight ourselves, being the cold and timid souls that we are, willing to risk neither victory nor defeat. Then of course, there are those apathetic hypocrites, content to merely wallow in the intellectual pride of hollow cynicism that words amount to nothing.
Which is why I write this for myself, and not for any of you. Vanity is the only worthy reason left for literature. Art is a selfish venture. It is individualistic and personal. If there was any form of communication or altruism in it, then it was purely accidental. The greatest pieces of art only ever stemmed from expression of self for one’s own understanding and the creation of beauty for one’s own appreciation. Critics will churn out delusions of interpretations, philosophers will debate endlessly over the definition of beauty and art, aesthetes will nod in appreciation of non-existent intentions. In the end, we are the only ones that truly appreciate the art we ourselves create; no other can comprehend our works in all its entirety – psychologically or spiritually.
Hence, I conclude with Oscar Wilde’s words – “All art is quite useless.”
lolz i can't remember exactly my inspiration for this cynicism. but it was while reading some newspaper forums (O.o yes one of the few times i read). tot it was nice and in the interests of being controversial, here we are =) but perhaps a part of me does actually subscribe to this. i don't know. i've been feeling a bit wary of introspection lately. no la. i'm a fan of art <3 as oscar wilde was a poet. laughZ dirty hypocrites all of us.