in Alejandro Jodorowsky’s telling, Pages sit between the 2 and 3 positions, 2 being the number of untapped potential and 3 the number of activity unfolding. 2+3=5, and yesterday I pulled the 5 of Pentacles; 5, according to Jodorowsky, is the hinge point between 1-4 (materiality) and 6-9 (spirituality). needless to say, there’s a threshold I’m at, and it involves transforming, alchemically, base material (pentacles), which I’ve been thinking of as “narcissism,” into spiritual gold—schizomystical proclamations. I came up with this schema for interpreting the card before I had The Culture of Narcissism, by Christopher Lasch, come in for me at the library this morning. in it, Lasch discusses how in the 60s, new literary forms developed, what we might call “New Journalism” or “the confessional mode,” that flaunted the writer’s own particular perspective as a means for interrogating how culture, economics, and politics worked upon the writer to shape that perspective; that is, it refined the base material of the writer’s personal life into gold that shines upon the society from which it arises.

in Lasch’s account, this is a worthy innovation of the period, but, of course, this privileging of the personal as way into the political risks falling into mere self-aggrandizement:

Yet the increasing interpenetration of fiction, journalism, and autobiography undeniably indicates that many writers find it more and more difficult to achieve the detachment indispensable for art. Instead of fictionalizing personal material or otherwise reordering it, they have taken to presenting it undigested, leaving the reader to arrive at his own interpretations. Instead of working through their memories, many writers now rely on mere self-disclosure to keep the reader interested, appealing not to his understanding but to his salacious curiosity about the lives of famous people. In Mailer’s works and those of his many imitators, what begins as a critical reflection on the writer’s own ambition, frankly acknowledged as a bid for literary immortality, often ends in a garrulous monologue, with the writer trading on his own celebrity and filling page after page with material having no other claim to attention than its association with a famous name. Once having brought himself to public attention, the writer enjoys a ready-made market for true confessions. Thus Erica Jong, after winning an audience by writing about sex with as little feeling as a man, immediately produced another novel about a young woman who becomes a literary celebrity.

too bad Lasch isn’t around to comment on Knausgaard. another fun part of the little bit that I’ve read so far is the page he devotes to dunking on Jerry Rubin, clown prince of the yippies-turned-yuppies.

in other reading news, I’m struggling with what else I’m in the midst of. Satantango by Krasznahorkai is phenomenal so far, but with 30-page chapters consisting of a single paragraph requiring intense unbroken focus, it’s been hard to “chip away at it”, while I’m trying to devote more time to this blog, planning two novels, and writing stories. if I don’t pick it back up in a few days I’ll probably set it aside til I can give it more of my attention in a few weeks. on the subject of planning a novel, I’m also annotating Shamanism by Mircea Eliade, having lots of fun with it, but it’s a little repetitive and describes in rotation the practices of various northern and central Asian cultures. it’s quite interesting, but a little too in the weeds for my purposes. and I’ve been sipping from Minima Moralia by Adorno and totally honest, it’s great in flashes, but nearly opaque in others, to the point where I know I’m going to have to reread it once I’m done and therefor I’m tempted to put it aside half-read as well. here’s a famous tidbit from what I’ve read so far:

Every work of art is an uncommitted crime.