Consciousness and the Paranormal

[smcder]

I'd always imagined Hemingway as some relatively frail alcoholic writer intellectual, so stumbling upon this colorful part of his past is an unexpected and interesting surprise.

Definitely not frail - boxing has been the source of a lot of good writing and film "A Piece of Steak" by London is a favorite, "Barfly" starring Mickey Rourke - a less seen film with a fight at the heart of it. My favorite onscreen Fisticuffs is at the end of "The Quiet Man".

 

[Burnt State]

I'd always imagined Hemingway as some relatively frail alcoholic writer intellectual, so stumbling upon this colorful part of his past is an unexpected and interesting surprise.

Alcoholic yes, but far from frail. I'd really like to know how guys like him and Faulkner managed to pull off such genius while entirely inebriated. Or did they actually pause between indulgences to get the writing out and then hit the bottle?

Sorry, but between dentistry, boxing, modernist writing and alcoholism this thread has turned a corner. But perhaps a good pick up point is writing under the influence. Is this what allowed those writers to get out of the way of their muse so that the words could flow?

And of course that leads directly to that guy who could manifest images on film with his mind only by getting completely hammered first.

Candid: The Extremely Open Mind of Chicago's "Thoughtographer" - Chicago Paranormal | Examiner.com

 

[Randall]

Definitely not frail - boxing has been the source of a lot of good writing and film "A Piece of Steak" by London is a favorite, "Barfly" starring Mickey Rourke - a less seen film with a fight at the heart of it. My favorite onscreen Fisticuffs is at the end of "The Quiet Man".

Personally, I'm not much into jock culture, let alone martial arts where the aim is to inflict injury on another person. Yet at the same time, there is some primitive allure to it. Barfly is certainly a classic and I own a copy. Another less mentioned film I really enjoyed ( and own a copy of ) is Cinderella Man.

Cinderella Man - Trailer

 

[smcder]

Alcoholic yes, but far from frail. I'd really like to know how guys like him and Faulkner managed to pull off such genius while entirely inebriated. Or did they actually pause between indulgences to get the writing out and then hit the bottle?

Sorry, but between dentistry, boxing, modernist writing and alcoholism this thread has turned a corner. But perhaps a good pick up point is writing under the influence. Is this what allowed those writers to get out of the way of their muse so that the words could flow?

And of course that leads directly to that guy who could manifest images on film with his mind only by getting completely hammered first.



Candid: The Extremely Open Mind of Chicago's "Thoughtographer" - Chicago Paranormal | Examiner.com

Are you serios?

I think it was Faulkner who used alcohol in a deliberate way - editing and final drafts being done sober as a rule.

 

[Burnt State]

Are you serios?

Ahem, well apparently Mr. Serios was debunked by the same skeptic who tried to debunk the existence of the g-spot. So how much fun are skeptics, really, and is their true mission simply to take out the pleasure from everyone else's worldview?

I think it was Faulkner who used alcohol in a deliberate way - editing and final drafts being done sober as a rule.

I remember reading through his corrected proofs of As I Lay Dying, which he claimed was written in record time with minimal edits - the corrected proofs bear this out. The thing is it's such an intricate and well plotted work, consistent in thematics, character development and imagery - it's impossible to imagine typing that while loaded.

"I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth," says Dewey Dell. Must be getting close to spring.

 

[smcder]

Ahem, well apparently Mr. Serios was debunked by the same skeptic who tried to debunk the existence of the g-spot. So how much fun are skeptics, really, and is their true mission simply to take out the pleasure from everyone else's worldview?



I remember reading through his corrected proofs of As I Lay Dying, which he claimed was written in record time with minimal edits - the corrected proofs bear this out. The thing is it's such an intricate and well plotted work, consistent in thematics, character development and imagery - it's impossible to imagine typing that while loaded.

"I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth," says Dewey Dell. Must be getting close to spring.

And I can't imagine it sober. Some folks are either drunk or sober but others function brilliantly for years intoxicated - I'm sure he wasn't pissing blind drunk all the way through but that leaves plenty of room for not being sober, yes?

 

[smcder]

Ahem, well apparently Mr. Serios was debunked by the same skeptic who tried to debunk the existence of the g-spot. So how much fun are skeptics, really, and is their true mission simply to take out the pleasure from everyone else's worldview?



I remember reading through his corrected proofs of As I Lay Dying, which he claimed was written in record time with minimal edits - the corrected proofs bear this out. The thing is it's such an intricate and well plotted work, consistent in thematics, character development and imagery - it's impossible to imagine typing that while loaded.

"I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth," says Dewey Dell. Must be getting close to spring.

My guess is Mozart could have played some intricate thingy on the one hand, composed another on the other hand and got himself drunk on the third without you or I being able to tell the difference.

 

[smcder]

Ahem, well apparently Mr. Serios was debunked by the same skeptic who tried to debunk the existence of the g-spot. So how much fun are skeptics, really, and is their true mission simply to take out the pleasure from everyone else's worldview?



I remember reading through his corrected proofs of As I Lay Dying, which he claimed was written in record time with minimal edits - the corrected proofs bear this out. The thing is it's such an intricate and well plotted work, consistent in thematics, character development and imagery - it's impossible to imagine typing that while loaded.

"I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth," says Dewey Dell. Must be getting close to spring.

I am a big fan of Mr Serios and thoughtographs are a fascinating way to demonstrate paranormal ability. There should be analogous internet based phenomena out there . . . Yes? As for debunking the g-spot you have to give the obviously male skeptic props for having . . . We'll, the obvious.

 

[smcder]

Personally, I'm not much into jock culture, let alone martial arts where the aim is to inflict injury on another person. Yet at the same time, there is some primitive allure to it. Barfly is certainly a classic and I own a copy. Another less mentioned film I really enjoyed ( and own a copy of ) is Cinderella Man.

​

Oh I dunno - we jocks do a lot for you brainiac types! ;-)

 

[Burnt State]

And I can't imagine it sober. Some folks are either drunk or sober but others function brilliantly for years intoxicated - I'm sure he wasn't pissing blind drunk all the way through but that leaves plenty of room for not being sober, yes?

Having once hung out with wordsmiths at the bar in a previous life, it's true, there is a good period of time where their brains are on fire and are some of the best raconteurs going. In fact when I think of my literary hero, Dylan Thomas, who pissed his life away in a pint bottle, he seemed to have no problem at all maintaining his genius for a good stretch of time while four sheets to the wind. But with all of them there is a tipping point where what was once wildly entertaining just becomes plain sad.

 

[smcder]

Having once hung out with wordsmiths at the bar in a previous life, it's true, there is a good period of time where their brains are on fire and are some of the best raconteurs going. In fact when I think of my literary hero, Dylan Thomas, who pissed his life away in a pint bottle, he seemed to have no problem at all maintaining his genius for a good stretch of time while four sheets to the wind. But with all of them there is a tipping point where what was once wildly entertaining just becomes plain sad.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,
That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

 

[smcder]

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters...But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk.

Baudelaire

 

[Constance]

More of the context, from A Midsummer Night's Dream ~~~

Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, and PHILOSTRATE, with other attendant lords



HIPPOLYTA

'Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

HIPPOLYTA

These lovers are saying some strange things, Theseus.



THESEUS

More strange than true. I never may believe

These antique fables nor these fairy toys.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend

More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

Are of imagination all compact.

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold—

That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,

Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt.

The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven.

And as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

Such tricks hath strong imagination,

That if it would but apprehend some joy,

It comprehends some bringer of that joy.

Or in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush supposed a bear!



HIPPOLYTA

But all the story of the night told over,

And all their minds transfigured so together,

More witnesseth than fancy’s images

And grows to something of great constancy,

But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

 

[smcder]

More of the context, from A Midsummer Night's Dream ~~~

Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, and PHILOSTRATE, with other attendant lords



HIPPOLYTA

'Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

HIPPOLYTA

These lovers are saying some strange things, Theseus.



THESEUS

More strange than true. I never may believe

These antique fables nor these fairy toys.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend

More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

Are of imagination all compact.

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold—

That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,

Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt.

The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven.

And as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

Such tricks hath strong imagination,

That if it would but apprehend some joy,

It comprehends some bringer of that joy.

Or in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush supposed a bear!



HIPPOLYTA

But all the story of the night told over,

And all their minds transfigured so together,

More witnesseth than fancy’s images

And grows to something of great constancy,

But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

Of great Constancy indeed! Shakespeare was wise to leave Hippolyta the last word.

 

[Constance]

WS took it a little further in the last stanza of "A Primitive like an Orb":

XII
That's it. The lover writes, the believer hears,
The poet mumbles and the painter sees,
Each one, his fated eccentricity,
As a part, but part, but tenacious particle,
Of the skeleton of the ether, the total
Of letters, prophecies, perceptions, clods
Of color, the giant of nothingness, each one
And the giant ever changing, living in change.

 

[smcder]

[

quote="Constance, post: 186597, member: 6124"]WS took it a little further in the last stanza of "A Primitive like an Orb":

XII
That's it. The lover writes, the believer hears,
The poet mumbles and the painter sees,
Each one, his fated eccentricity,
As a part, but part, but tenacious particle,
Of the skeleton of the ether, the total
Of letters, prophecies, perceptions, clods
Of color, the giant of nothingness, each one
And the giant ever changing, living in change.[/quote]

Has no one thought to implicate Shakespeare in an alien social engineering conspiracy? Harold Bloom claims he invented the human in the supreme case of literay influence.

 

[smcder]

WS took it a little further in the last stanza of "A Primitive like an Orb":

XII
That's it. The lover writes, the believer hears,
The poet mumbles and the painter sees,
Each one, his fated eccentricity,
As a part, but part, but tenacious particle,
Of the skeleton of the ether, the total
Of letters, prophecies, perceptions, clods
Of color, the giant of nothingness, each one
And the giant ever changing, living in change.

I found a copy online of the entire poem .

 

[nameless]

'There's no number,' Ford said. 'But you'll be able to find it if you can find the PlaceContrescarpe.'I took another long drink. The waiter had brought Ford's drink and Ford wascorrecting him. 'It wasn't a brandy and soda,' he said helpfully but severely. 'I ordered aChambery vermouth and Cassis.''It's all right, Jean,' I said. 'I'll take the/w. Bring Monsieur what he orders now.''What I ordered,' corrected Ford.At that moment a rather gaunt man wearing a cape passed on the sidewalk. He waswith a tall woman and he glanced at our table and then away and went on his way downthe boulevard.'Did you see me cut him?' Ford said.
'Did you see me cut him?''No. Who did you cut?' 'Belloc,' Ford said.
'Did I cut him!' 'I didn't see it,' I said.'Why did you cut him?' 'For every good reason in the world,' Ford said.
'Did I cut him though!'He was thoroughly and completely happy. I had never seen Belloc and I did not believe he had seen us. He looked like a man who had been thinking of something and had glanced at the table almost automatically. I felt badly that Ford had been rude to him,as, being a young man who was commencing his education, I had a high regard for him as an older writer. This is not understandable now but in those days it was a common occurrence.I thought it would have been pleasant if Belloc had stopped at the table and I might have met him. The afternoon had been spoiled by seeing Ford but I thought Belloc might have made it better.'What are you drinking brandy for?' Ford asked me. 'Don't you know it's fatal for a young writer to start drinking brandy?''I don't drink it very often,' I said. I was trying to remember what Ezra Pound had told me about Ford, that I must never be rude to him, that I must remember that he only lied when he was very tired, that he was really a good writer and that he had been through very bad domestic troubles. I tried hard to think of these things but the heavy, wheezing,ignoble presence of Ford himself, only touching-distance away, made it difficult. But I tried.'Tell me why one cuts people,' I asked. Until then I had thought it was something only done in novels by Ouida. I had never been able to read a novel by Ouida, not even at some skiing place in Switzerland where reading matter had run out when the wet south wind had come and there were only the left-behind Tauchnitz editions of before the war.But I was sure, by some sixth sense, that people cut one another in her novels


'A gentleman,' Ford explained, 'will always cut a cad.'I took a quick drink of brandy.'Would he cut a bounder?' I asked.'It would be impossible for a gentleman to know a bounder.''Then you can only cut someone you have known on terms of equality?' I pursued.'Naturally.''How would one ever meet a cad?''You might not know it, or the fellow could have become a cad.''What is a cad?' I asked. 'Isn't he someone that one has to thrash within an inch of hislife?''Not necessarily,' Ford said.'Is Ezra a gentleman?' I asked.'Of course not,' Ford said. 'He's an American.''Can't an American be a gentleman?'Terhaps John Quinn,' Ford explained. 'Certain of your ambassadors.''Myron T. Herrick?''Possibly.''Was Henry James a gentleman?''Very nearly.''Are you a gentleman?''Naturally. I have held His Majesty's commission.''It's very complicated,' I said. 'Am I a gentleman?''Absolutely not,' Ford said.'Then why are you drinking with me?''I'm drinking with you as a promising young writer. As a fellow writer, in fact.''Good of you,' I said.

'You might be considered a gentleman in Italy,' Ford said magnanimously.'But I'm not a cad?''Of course not, dear boy. Who ever said such a thing?''I might become one,' I said sadly. 'Drinking brandy and all. That was what did for Lord Harry Hotspur in Trollope. Tell me, was Trollope a gentleman?''Of course not.''You're sure?''There might be two opinions. But not in mine.''Was Fielding? He was a judge.''Technically, perhaps.''Marlowe?''Of course not.''John Donne?''He was a parson.''It's fascinating,' I said.'I'm glad you're interested,' Ford said. 'I'll have a brandy and water with you before Igo.'After Ford left it was dark and I walked over to the
ktosque and bought a Paris-Sport Compkt, the final edition of the afternoon racing paper with the results at Auteuil, and the line on the next day's meeting at Enghien. The waiter Emile, who had replaced Jean on duty, came to the table to see the results of the last race at Auteuil. A great friend of mine who rarely came to the Lilas came over to the table and sat down, and just then as my friend was ordering a drink from Emile the gaunt man in the cape with the tall woman passed us on the sidewalk. His glance drifted towards the table and then away.'That's Hilaire Belloc,' I said to my friend. 'Ford was here this afternoon and cut him dead.''Don't be a silly ass,' my friend said. 'That's Aleister Crowley, the diabolist. He's supposed to be the wickedest man in the world.''Sorry,' I said.

Ford Madox Ford and the Devl's Disciple , From A Moveable Feast - Ernest Hemmingway

 

[Constance]

Has no one thought to implicate Shakespeare in an alien social engineering conspiracy?

Not to my knowledge, but anything is possible these days.

 

[smcder]

Having once hung out with wordsmiths at the bar in a previous life, it's true, there is a good period of time where their brains are on fire and are some of the best raconteurs going. In fact when I think of my literary hero, Dylan Thomas, who pissed his life away in a pint bottle, he seemed to have no problem at all maintaining his genius for a good stretch of time while four sheets to the wind. But with all of them there is a tipping point where what was once wildly entertaining just becomes plain sad.

How many previous lives have you had, exactly? ;-)

Breise! Breise! Extra! Extra! | Just thinking out loud and talking to meself!! © Loretto Horrigan Leary

Of course we are only looking here at a writer in terms of his quality of output, aren't we?and not thinking they might drink for the same good reasons anyone else does. And we also assume they would just go on and on better and better had they not ever, ignoring any relationships more complicated than "if . . . Then" when it's the totality of all influences from which we can't extract any one thing. After all How much better do you think Hemingway Faulkner or Thomas could have been? The answer to that might have been what set them to drinking in the first and last places.