The players and the highlights are absorbed. Only the terrorists stand outside. The culture hasn't figured out how to assimilate them. It's confusing when they kill the innocent. But this is precisely the language of being noticed, the only language the West understands.
The Booker technical has no purchase on the mercies of analogy or simile. We have to take the shock and horror as it is. The writer wants to understand what this call has done to us.
Is it too soon? We seem pressed for time, all of us. Time is scarcer now.
@LinkofSunshine you inspired me to make an upgraded version: https://t.co/aC4xy1G7yJ now includes a date filter and animations to track movement over time. hope you like it
@samgrahamfelsen What a thrill to see "Jack's Joke Shop" in print. A shame there is no one-stop-shop for rubber vomit, fart powder, and exploding gum these days.
A bright student who logged on at ten years old and systematically dissolved his own capacity for authentic engagement. His crime emerges from the platform's total colonization of interior life. It is a mediated act, rehearsed on Discord and executed on a midwestern roof.
The man who performs the act has already pre-ironized it. He knows childhood Facebook posts will be screenshotted, his violence converted to discourse. This foreknowledge seeps into the killing itself.
DeLillo in 1983: "This is a self-referring event. The man who performs the act comments on it at the same time. He knows in advance what our reaction will be. This knowledge and this reaction mysteriously find their way into the act itself... His own sense of the crime is based on what he knows the world will say about it. It is a secondhand act, derivative, borrowed, used."
https://t.co/njwn9J6wMF
A manila folder contains the documents: Adelson family account balances, a Champion-ranked Overwatch account active during team practices, a fired nutritionist's NDA. Twenty-four hours later, Dončić boards a westbound plane.
He kept the Tim Urban books in his room. They altered the room, charged it with meaning. The books made him part of something. Men in small rooms. Men reading and waiting, struggling with secret and feverish ideas. He would need a secret name.
Years ago I used to think it was possible for a novelist to alter the inner life of the culture. Now bomb-makers and gunmen have taken that territory. They make raids on human consciousness.
“American Blood,” Don DeLillo’s 1983 Rolling Stone essay about the JFK hit & Hinckley’s attempt on Reagan, is mostly scrubbed from the internet but was transcribed by a kind MA and can be read here. Worth a read these days. https://t.co/0JdEysBadw
Americans, for their own good reasons, tend to believe in lone gunmen. A stranger walks out of the shadows, a disaffected man, a drifter with three first names and an Anon look about him, tight-lipped and squinting. We think we know exactly who he is.
Powerful events breed their own network of inconsistencies. The simple facts elude authentication. How many wounds on the President's body? What is the size and shape of the wounds?
The fear of playoff elimination and the long plane ride home is easily spoken. The other fear is different, hard to name, the fear of things at one's back, the silent on-court presence.
An offense is something we make from available materials. In this sense it's improvised. Maybe this is why we know so little about it. It's too inspired and quicksilver a thing to be clearly understood. Five players make a blur.
Fandom is the march of stupidity. You're expected to lurch between rumor and fact, suspending the operation of sound thought. It is the pattern, the level and the norm. You are an army of fools in bright polyesters.
In this country there is a universal third person, the man we all want to be. Advertising has discovered this man. To consume in America is not to buy; it is to dream. Advertising is the suggestion that the dream of entering the third person singular might possibly be fulfilled.