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#1
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X, a literary critic, was often called a 'pedant' by his friends. He could never work out exactly why they called him so, and when he asked, they evaded his questions and gave, at least in his opinion, highly general and therefore misleading answers. But X's friends were right: X was famous all around the world for his circumspect and subtle analyses of literary texts. He had written many books, but there was one he had just started that produced a particular subtle, particularly accurate analysis. He was analysing a novel, and he read the work so accurately, so subtly, that after many years of constant seamless attention, he had, suddenly, after putting in the final full-stop exactly where he wanted it, finished, completely and delightfully finished. He was very proud of this work. He died thinking, quite rightly, that he had produced the most accurate critical reading in the history of literary criticism. As it turned out, X's book was a complete rewriting of the whole novel: word for word, full-stop for full-stop, comma for comma. |
| Z was a philosopher who had turned to literary texts while looking for a new source of ideas. She would sit in the middle of her office with the book in her hand, inside a large circle drawn in chalk around her body (there was about a metre between the circumference and her crossed legs). She had several little helpers come in to help her. She would read a few passages until she found one which would trigger off a particular memory (most commonly of a debate serialised in a prominent philosophical journal, or a particular idea she had recently read while engaged in philosophical research), and she would then promptly ask one of her helpers to find her the appropriate source of information in her library. The little helper would hand over the article or the book or sometimes even a catalogue of pictures, and she would place it in an appropriate place within the circle. After a while her little helpers had to help her out of the well she had built up around her. As for the book, it lay crumpled and lost somewhere deep within the squalor of archives. |
#2
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Max Leskiewicz
