User:Giarc/Memoirs of a Critic

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“A philosophical treatise on the human condition and modern culture.”
~ The Author on Memoirs of a Critic
If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul.

In an expansive and deeply expressive genre-defying epic of modern writing, the author brings to you a tale that deals with life, love, social climbing, of decadent daliences, of parties de jour, of celebrity scandals but most importantly it is the story of the man who was witness and played a part in many of the major stories of the latter end of the 20th Century.

My Education

There is no such thing as a wrong war. Violence and revolution are the only pure acts. War is the last possible creative act.

It is often said that the root of education is bitter, whilst its fruit is sweet, and it is a belief that the author shares. My time in school was not a happy one, although I was both intensely studious and a natural sportsman. It wasn't all about fun and games, serious bonding rituals designed to help create the leaders of tomorrow were a regular feature of school life.

They say that schooldays are the best days of your life, and in some ways that is true for most of us. The social evenings, nocturnal visits to the local Academy for Gifted Young Ladies, and a summer of fun with my buxom, adventurous French Tutor, Miss D'Rei all remain as vivid and colourful now as they were then. Overall, though, I must say that life in an all boys school was not to my liking.

My Many Loves

My life, when it is written, will read better than it lived.

My first conquest was a doe-eyed young maiden in my home town, slight and nervous, she had the soulful look of a young Lillian Gish, her dark flowing curls and pouting red lips. It is said that one always remembers first love most sweetly, the end of the innocence of youth and the craving of new sensations. I disagree, new love is always the first time.

Loneliness has followed me my whole life, everywhere. In bars, in cars, sidewalks, stores, everywhere. There's no escape. I'm God's lonely man.

Once I could name each name, and remember each face, but long since have many of my daliences passed into the recesses of my mind. My story is not a kiss and tell fantasy. But to ignore the ladies who were a part of my life would be to ignore a sizeable chunk of my life. Women, quite simply adore me. Many are catpivated by the beauty of my diction, others by the beauty of my rhythms, whilst many are transfixed by my large manly thighs.

My one regret was that I was not able to help others to improve their art. One such regret was young Anaïs Nin, her surrealistic style was so opposed to the realism that defines correct writing. I did offer to teach her to write, the poor girl declined, and she remained one conquest that I did not erect my flag upon her shore.


Living with Success

Many would say that hardship is the curse of the lower classes, but I can vouch for a deeper hardship suffered by the rich and successful. In many ways the poor, with their lack of dreams and intellect have a much easier life, their petty goals are achievable. They know their place within the social heirarchy and are happy to stay at the bottom.

Monday burn Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn 'em to ashes, then burn the ashes. That's our official slogan.

That they are able to live by modest means, drive non-luxury cars, and do not own luxury homes and yatchs is no doubt to their credit. Poor people, especially authors and script writers have often attacked me for my love of affluence and my inherent Anglophone Romanticism. They are unable to see that my Rabelaisian appetites, my ardours and my vulnerabilities are part of my charm.

See Also

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