Posts tagged with “pretentious moi?”
Yes, that is indeed a blogroll. So quaint. I put it there yesterday.
You know: ever since I started blogging sometime in 2001, the demise of the independent, personal blog has been projected and the Golden Age of blogging deemed to be over already. I mean: in 2001, I should clearly have been around in 1995. Oh, man: that was blogging. The cool kids have moved on.
But judging from the length of that blogroll, they actually haven't. Not all of them. Other people notice, too, for example Kottke who has been at this longer than I and with much more consistency.
Only a short while ago, people left their blogs behind and claimed that their digital nourishment would henceforth be partaken of in places such as Facebook and Twitter. I, personally, have never really gotten into Twitter, and Facebook? Well: Facebook ...
Is this the return of the independent, personal blog? Perhaps not at the (relative) scale it once had, also because the 'net itself is so much larger today. And not all blogs are that independent and personal. We are swamped by all the celebs and semi-celebs that have blogs on various blogging platforms that are -- in reality -- all about non-disclosed affiliate deals and straight-up false advertising. And probably ghostwritten, too.
Medium? I dunno. The layout is bothersome. And it is not exactly focused and curated so you find a little bit of everything. The good. And the really bad.
So, onwards we go. Keeping up with good, independent content is more importand now than it ever was.
Post-modernists may be said to have developed a paradigm that clashes sharply with the one in this book. I have argued that modern life and art and thought have the capacity for perpetual self-critique and self-renewal. Post-modernists maintain that the horizon of modernity is closed, its energies exhausted—in effect, that modernity is passé. Post-modernist social thought pours scorn on all the collective hopes for moral and social progress, for personal freedom and public happiness, that were bequeathed to us by the modernists of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment. These hopes, post moderns say, have been shown to be bankrupt, at best vain and futile fantasies
Marshall Berman, All That Is Solid Melts Into Air:The Experience Of Modernity
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
T. S. Eliot