RSS feedHidden in the brick-a-brack facade of love, hung a thread of significance not unforseen for twix unobtuse. “A feather, a feather!” he shouted, as a duck sway asunder yon hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now. The spirits of flight adorned as such on high above frequented love abound and torn a wretch that was, and was, and was.
To say I’m full of rants would be an understatement, so here’s another. Many a year ago I had an argument with a fellow literian, if there is such a thing, about how the greatest poetry and novels of this and previous ages were mostly written under the influence of various illicit drugs. Ken Russell’s film Gothic exemplifies this with a supposed dramatisation of the night that Mary Shelley invented Frankenstein. This in itself perhaps the product of a chemically modified mind.
So the argument goes, should we revere the works of artists who created their works under the influence? Or is this basically cheating? Having created works under the influence, I can indeed attest that creativity is increased somewhat under such conditions, and because the majority of the population most likely do not partake in such pastimes, if they had, then there would be more works of greatness, and our current “great” artists would perhaps not be so great after all.
Is this cheating, and similar to athletes taking steroids? Is art a representation of what the human condition is capable of, not some chemically induced effluvium dragged kicking and screaming from the subconcious of people incapable of creating under more stable conditions?
Could you create a great work while under the influence of illicit drugs? How would it compare to the works of the great poets of history? Should we revere that which seems greater than it is?