ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
A twenty-something jack-of-all-trades that has simple been exploring the craft of writing for longer than he can remember. Whilst humour is a fickle mistress that comes and goes, he must admit that tragedy and romance consume the bulk of his creative efforts. [January 2008]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (17) Alexandria (Poetry) Just a quick little verse I scribbled down one day on a whim celebrating the destruction of knowledge. [24 words] [History] Ballad Of The Opiate King (Poetry) - [151 words] Birds (Poetry) Oh, the things we do... [159 words] [Romance] Collected Poems (Poetry) A collection of some of the poetry I've written over the years; most of it follows the same or similar rhyming scheme and cadence (yes, most of it rhymes... sorry folks), but the material covered vari... [1,331 words] Consciousness Stream 1 (Poetry) A relatively lengthy piece I simply spit out one day whilst feeling inexplicably intoxicated (for I was under no influence). [300 words] [Mind] How She Stirs Not At All (Short Stories) - [319 words] I Should Think It Like A Fist (Non-Fiction) A semi-conscious rant on language, love and whatever else I found offensive that day. [493 words] [Psychology] I Think You'd Like Her (Short Stories) A soliloquy of sorts, we find a young man reflecting on a love now lost. [1,440 words] [Romance] Mere Life Less Love (Non-Fiction) A short projection of private thoughts regarding love and life. [276 words] Moments, A Lamentation (Non-Fiction) - [500 words] [Romance] Princes And Lesser (Poetry) An exercise in entendre. [117 words] [Literary Fiction] Reflections On A Sunrise (Short Stories) A very old fable I stumbled across that I had written some years ago. I still reading it from time to time, I like what I was trying to do here, inspirational and all of that. [1,037 words] [Fable] Stranded At Dusk (Short Stories) I've labeled this as a short story, although my original intent was to develop this into a longer work, possibly a novella or full-length novel. [1,690 words] [Thriller] Sunday Morning (Short Stories) Memories. Just... memories. [458 words] [Literary Fiction] The Mad Diarist (Short Stories) The first fragments of a diary have been discovered buried beneath the dust of an old condemned building. The author's identity remains a mystery. [347 words] [Horror] The Opiate King (Poetry) In Memorium of a Great Man. [151 words] [Mystical] Worlds Apart (Short Stories) A series of piggybacking streams of consciousness, effectively stages of one man's reflection on the woman he's left for reasons (and duration) unknown. [1,595 words] [Relationships]
Of Art, Pt. 1 Gregory Novak
It is this very notion of living on the periphery of life. Of making one’s bread and butter out of the spoils of society’s leisure. Where is nobility in that? In waking each day and rather than feeding or building or serving or teaching or policing or healing the world, you provide and take payment merely for your contribution to your countrymen’s decadent obsessions? What’s more, that in doing so you may well enjoy a measure more of infamy in this life and beyond for your aesthetic productions than the healers and farmers and teachers who form the real clockwork of life.
We may claim, as auteurs, to enrich the lives of those we touch either directly or through our productions. We may take solace and indeed defend our course in life by claiming to take the edges off of the world for those struggling to hold it together. We may neither show nor offer any hand in shaping the pattern of incarnate life, though we may just as surely convince ourselves that it is our vision that steadies the secular hand along the seams. Nor may we even pretend ourselves the glue which binds this pattern into a whole.
Art, that ever permeable atmosphere that is invisible to most, yet virtually rapturous to those devout enough to give it berth and accept its omniscience. It is at once the most fallible and sentient of endeavours, subject to all manner of practice and applied effort, and yet entirely unthreatened by any categorical scrutiny toward criticism. It is a pursuit considered chiefly frivolous in the wake of societal pursuits toward the sustenance and betterment of humankind; cast aside for the urgent application of medicine, construction, and public service. It is acknowledged and adored by nearly every member of civilization on a level, and yet still it is cast aside to the fringes of nominal human pursuit. It is considered a luxury of faculty, and yet remains the prime force behind our own creation according to our accepted Scripture – it had been not science, nor study, nor idle play that delivered life into the cradling bosom of the universe grand, but Art that our Father employed in Heaven.
And so it is at that great demarcation of mind and spirit in which we find perhaps the single greatest achievement of Art in all of its storied history – the catalysm of Science’s own introspection. While it would be folly to debate the precedence of either house against the other, it can not be argued convincingly that without one present to (objectively) antagonize the other, there would arise no need for the definition of either. After all, it is scarcely worth identifying the disdain of any studious Scientist at the mere thought of approaching his work with the same flippancy toward mechanical process as employed (if the manner of pursuit can even be referred to as such!) by the Artist toward his respective craft.
READER'S REVIEWS (1) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"Quite thought provoking. Your last sentence implying that the "studious scientist" would not approach his work with the same flippancy ..... as the artist is contradicted by modern day scientists who seem to pick and choose the evidence they "develop" to sustain a consensus of opinion. An opinion which seems to favor political expedience more than scientific fact ie., man's burning of fossil fuels having a significant effect on global warming. Pure unadulterated bullshit. " -- Richard.
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