Lev Grossman on the connections between modernist literature and fantasy, an the difference between fantasy (the genre) and fantasy (the mental state), with added background on Leonard Woolf (husband of the more famous Virginia) and his odd housemate from his days in the Ceylon Civil Service:
Magical thinking isnâ€™t fantasy in the literary sense. It is a fantasy, in the psychoanalytic sense: a dream of a world where actions donâ€™t have consequences, where loss is an impossibility, where wishing makes it so, where one doesnâ€™t have to make choices, because all possible good things arrive at once, unbidden, with none of those nasty trade-offs that are so characteristic of real life. There is no either/or in a fantasy, itâ€™s all both/and. This is the world that Duttonâ€™s fairies evoked for Woolf, and that he was struggling so mightily to put behind him.
But fantasies arenâ€™t literature, and fantasies arenâ€™t fantasy. This isnâ€™t a distinction that Woolf would have made, but Dutton might have made it. Granted, fantasy literature, broadly speaking, tends to be set in worlds where magic is real. But that doesnâ€™t mean anything is possible. Magic doesnâ€™t permeate those worlds completely. Magic exists, but only as a flash of vital light in a universe that is otherwise as dark and mechanical as our ownâ€”its presence casts the tragic, non-magical parts of life in higher relief. Magic tantalizes with the possibility that it might quicken the world back into life, restore the lost paradise of magical thinking, but ultimately it cannot.
Jacob Lambert on Tetris as an aesthetic experience:
Floating through Tetrisâ€™ cranial hyperspace forces a natural introspection. Often, sort of insanely, Iâ€™ll dwell upon what my playing method can tell me about myself. My technique isnâ€™t to plow through rows or shatter a score; I play Tetris for the tetris: the four-row clear that comes with the vertically-nestled â€œIâ€ block. Self-denial is necessary for the maneuver, as all must be laid aside for the blessed pieceâ€™s arrival. Meanwhile, the pile mounts dangerously. When the block finally appears, this mild daring and asceticism are handsomely repaid: thereâ€™s a flash of light, a scream of sound, and the pileâ€™s heavy fall.
Paul Bloom, “The Pleasures of Imagination”:
The emotions triggered by fiction are very real. When Charles Dickens wrote about the death of Little Nell in the 1840s, people weptâ€”and I’m sure that the death of characters in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series led to similar tears. (After her final book was published, Rowling appeared in interviews and told about the letters she got, not all of them from children, begging her to spare the lives of beloved characters such as Hagrid, Hermione, Ron, and, of course, Harry Potter himself.) A friend of mine told me that he can’t remember hating anyone the way he hated one of the characters in the movie Trainspotting, and there are many people who can’t bear to experience certain fictions because the emotions are too intense. I have my own difficulty with movies in which the suffering of the characters is too real, and many find it difficult to watch comedies that rely too heavily on embarrassment; the vicarious reaction to this is too unpleasant.
These emotional responses are typically muted compared with the real thing. Watching a movie in which someone is eaten by a shark is less intense than watching someone really being eaten by a shark. But at every levelâ€”physiological, neurological, psychologicalâ€”the emotions are real, not pretend.
On a less pleasant note, a truly depressing article by Tim Dickinson, from Rolling Stone, on the oil spill in the gulf and the political dysfunctions that helped to bring it about.
The tale of the Deepwater Horizon disaster is, at its core, the tale of two blowout preventers: one mechanical, one regulatory. The regulatory blowout preventer failed long before BP ever started to drill â€“ precisely because Salazar kept in place the crooked environmental guidelines the Bush administration implemented to favor the oil industry.