Comments on: The Roar of Literature http://amitavakumar.blogsome.com/2007/06/07/the-roar-of-literature/ Reading Writing Teaching Fri, 09 Jan 2009 21:12:41 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=1.5.1-alpha by: Obiter Dictum http://amitavakumar.blogsome.com/2007/06/07/the-roar-of-literature/#comment-725 Thu, 14 Jun 2007 23:25:29 +0100 http://amitavakumar.blogsome.com/2007/06/07/the-roar-of-literature/#comment-725 Sublimity is so effervescent isn't it. But that is an old world thinking I subscribe to, too. You wanna be a writer, write then, read before that of course, learn from that. As I mentions in Zafar's blog (comments) perhaps all it can teach - the teaching courses) are how to be a little bit smart about getting published. Sublimity is so effervescent isn’t it.

But that is an old world thinking I subscribe to, too. You wanna be a writer, write then, read before that of course, learn from that. As I mentions in Zafar’s blog (comments) perhaps all it can teach - the teaching courses) are how to be a little bit smart about getting published.

]]> by: ranbir http://amitavakumar.blogsome.com/2007/06/07/the-roar-of-literature/#comment-723 Mon, 11 Jun 2007 01:17:06 +0100 http://amitavakumar.blogsome.com/2007/06/07/the-roar-of-literature/#comment-723 Hmmm.... I wouldn't call it sublime. I;d call it self-serving, and vaguely offensive in how he promotes the egos of untested, if anonymous, writers. They know who they are, and there's something rather unpleasant about the whole piece. The only luminous passage is when he talks of the beautiful disappearance of being a writer in Melbourne in the 1960s and how such a disappearance is no longer possible. But of course, this is flatly false also. For there are thousands of very good, and perhaps excellent, writers in New York City and not one of the 5000-plus agents, editors, et al. is breaking their door down. They as equally don't exist, even if their own psychic relationship to the ugly behemoth of contemporary publishing is very different. Hmmm…. I wouldn’t call it sublime. I;d call it self-serving, and vaguely offensive in how he promotes the egos of untested, if anonymous, writers. They know who they are, and there’s something rather unpleasant about the whole piece. The only luminous passage is when he talks of the beautiful disappearance of being a writer in Melbourne in the 1960s and how such a disappearance is no longer possible. But of course, this is flatly false also. For there are thousands of very good, and perhaps excellent, writers in New York City and not one of the 5000-plus agents, editors, et al. is breaking their door down. They as equally don’t exist, even if their own psychic relationship to the ugly behemoth of contemporary publishing is very different.

]]>