I revel in that. Nothing earns my disdain so much as a movement in art and literature that defines itself in terms of what it is not. It's not modern? So what is it? It's pure mimetic navel-gazing, nothing more. It's brought ruin to literature, and if I have to read one more novel about a poor minority woman who gets raped and ripped off by the government I won't even be able to puke. All puked out. There's nothing to read anymore.
I want to stress this: THERE'S NOTHING TO READ ANYMORE.
I'm begging anyone in the book business, please, please, bring back complimentary books about white men. It would just be so refreshing. We can't take it anymore.
It reminds me of hideous dogs: so "in." The New Zealand something or other that took Best in Show at the New York Dog Show a couple of weeks ago looked like a giant rodent with a beard, and legs of a greyhound. A tiny head on a massive grey snaggly-haired body. Ecchh. What's happened to taste these days? Taste, proportion, tone. Anyone? I'm seriously seeking an answer to the question.
The taste mavens of today seem to be stuck on ugly. Only the ugly can be beautiful. Because the beautiful had it too good for too long. And now we need to celebrate ugly. OK. I was with the program for a year or two. But that's enough. We can't stomach ugly, in animals, literature, art, forever. It's sad that ugly has to exist. And it does. And sometimes it can be noble, and sometimes it wakens us to our higher humanity. But enough is enough. I'm cultivating beauty. Yes, always a maverick, a dissident, a swimmer against the stream, I desire to behold beauty again. Isn't it enough that we all face death? What's uglier than that? Only those who refuse to recognize death in their near or distant future can continue to celebrate ugliness forever. Or are they simply masochists who insist we affirm them in their nihilism?
Well, that's why I got myself a white toy Poodle. Perfect conformation. Like a sculpture of a Greek god. Every line in perfect order. A coat of vanilla curls so thick you can hardly run your fingers through it. Almond-shaped eyes warm and hard at the same time. A sculpted muzzle that resolves itself in a fine black nose. The measure of the length of the back equal to the height of the legs. Symmetry, proportion. A throw-back to the Renaissance. A keen intelligence. A dog you don't have to feel sorry for. A dog who is not sloppy, but rather dainty. A beautiful little specimen of nature.
Pure bred Poodles for five centuries have been cultivated for two purposes: to be man's best and cleverest friend (and who really wants a dumb slob for a constant companion?), and to delight our days with the beauty of their persons and their personalities.
So yes, Poodles are outre these days. But ah, so many are missing so much. A Poodle is a work of art conceived and perfected by Nature and Man together. Why not enjoy?
To Sugar I say: L'chayim! Long life as you grow in inner and outer beauty. And to hell with Post Modernism.
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