Ronnaesthesia
Apr. 28th, 2010 04:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolorosa_12I've been insanely busy recently, as our registration pieces (10,000 words of thesis+annotated bibliography+detailed thesis outline/plan+training report) are due early next week and I've been editing like a demon. I've been incredibly stressed about the whole thing, mainly because I have no self-confidence and don't trust myself to write well. Basically, my mood swings depending on how recently I've met with my supervisor, who is very good at calming me down as well as gently nudging me in the right direction. Well, yesterday, we met up and she told me she was pleased with my work (she also said that I 'write beautifully', which made me extremely happy), so I'm basking in glory, and will probably continue to do so for at least...well, two days.
But that's not really why I'm posting. I've been having a lot of rambly thoughts about about my own idiosyncratic form of pseudo-synaesthesia. I don't hear colours or smell numbers or anything like that, but I do feel words, if that makes any sense.
This doesn't happen with everything I read, but some stuff - the writing of Ursula Le Guin, the poetry of Jo Walton (see recent example here), Pratchett's Death (and only this character), Massive Attack and Van She lyrics, the heartbreakingly beautiful one-shots of some fanfic writers (it only works with one-shots or drabble series, for some reason; I've yet to find this same quality in novel-length fic, even by these same writers), the short stories of Jorge Luis Borges, certain arcs in Neil Gaiman's The Sandman comics (I'm thinking here of 'The Sound of Her Wings' in particular) - has this quality. I can't quite articulate what it is, but I feel/perceive it when I read it.
It's entirely to do with the way these writers put words together. It's a strange juxtaposition of simplicity and profundity; they're often using very simple language, and there's a silence, a stillness, at the heart of their words that has the effect of a resounding thunderclap. Their stories are calm, like a desert at night, a desert at night with ruined buildings half-buried in the sand. I'm not explaining myself properly because it's a way of perceiving these stories/poems that is so internalised and introverted that it's almost beyond language.
Just looking at the above examples, it seems that this type of reaction seems to occur most often in stories dealing with death (Pratchett's Death, Gaiman's Death, Earthsea, many of the fanfics), although I'm not really sure why.
Hmm, I can't really explain this at all, but it's been hovering at the back of my brain for a while (after a recent fanfic-reading binge) and I simply had to write about it just so I could get it out of my mind.
I don't have many links for you today, besides this one from Justine Larbalestier about long-running series and their appeal, and this one from Kristin Cashore about 'home' in the Buffyverse. They're both pretty interesting.
ETA:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
get_medieval has just begun the commentary repost of my favourite arc. This comic is awesome, and if you don't believe me, read the TV Tropes page. It's aliens+medieval France, and I adore it.
But that's not really why I'm posting. I've been having a lot of rambly thoughts about about my own idiosyncratic form of pseudo-synaesthesia. I don't hear colours or smell numbers or anything like that, but I do feel words, if that makes any sense.
This doesn't happen with everything I read, but some stuff - the writing of Ursula Le Guin, the poetry of Jo Walton (see recent example here), Pratchett's Death (and only this character), Massive Attack and Van She lyrics, the heartbreakingly beautiful one-shots of some fanfic writers (it only works with one-shots or drabble series, for some reason; I've yet to find this same quality in novel-length fic, even by these same writers), the short stories of Jorge Luis Borges, certain arcs in Neil Gaiman's The Sandman comics (I'm thinking here of 'The Sound of Her Wings' in particular) - has this quality. I can't quite articulate what it is, but I feel/perceive it when I read it.
It's entirely to do with the way these writers put words together. It's a strange juxtaposition of simplicity and profundity; they're often using very simple language, and there's a silence, a stillness, at the heart of their words that has the effect of a resounding thunderclap. Their stories are calm, like a desert at night, a desert at night with ruined buildings half-buried in the sand. I'm not explaining myself properly because it's a way of perceiving these stories/poems that is so internalised and introverted that it's almost beyond language.
Just looking at the above examples, it seems that this type of reaction seems to occur most often in stories dealing with death (Pratchett's Death, Gaiman's Death, Earthsea, many of the fanfics), although I'm not really sure why.
Hmm, I can't really explain this at all, but it's been hovering at the back of my brain for a while (after a recent fanfic-reading binge) and I simply had to write about it just so I could get it out of my mind.
I don't have many links for you today, besides this one from Justine Larbalestier about long-running series and their appeal, and this one from Kristin Cashore about 'home' in the Buffyverse. They're both pretty interesting.
ETA:
get_medieval has just begun the commentary repost of my favourite arc. This comic is awesome, and if you don't believe me, read the TV Tropes page. It's aliens+medieval France, and I adore it.