Yesterday's mention of Lyn Hejinian's lyrical memoir My Life was intended to set up some observations I had upon seeing Althea Thauberger's Marat Sade Bohnice (2013) at the Audain Gallery last week, particularly the line about physiology, philosophy, patience and madness. But upon waking this morning I began to think about what Kenneth Tynan said in an earlier post, about the rise of biography in American Theatre, which brought to mind the increased presence of younger and younger memoir writers in 1990s literature, how that trend has, in some ways, displaced the novel as the dominant literary form. This is something I will likely take up later this month in my reading of the latest issue of The Capilano Review, as its editor, Jenny Penberthy, has invited me to act as a respondent on the magazine's online blog.
As for Thauberger's Marat Sade Bohnice, although I have yet to see the whole thing (looping video installations being what they are, I have seen only its last half and its first quarter), I intend to return to it before speaking on it further.
No comments:
Post a Comment