Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Furor Loquendi


The triocular percipience of my exquisitely sapient friend Thers has evulged the knotty integument of a blogospheric rara avis, whose Daedal labors in the lamentably thankless field of toposthetic inspissation have nurtured glossopetra of sufficient water to bedizen even the most opulent rhetorical tiara.

We know - who better? - what fallow ground commonly awaits the seeds disseminated by that sarcoid efflorescence atop the bowed stalk of the spine, and how seldom its ratiocinative pollen fructifies and renews the sullen dirt. In a similarly abortive explication of this tragical denouement, those who would make of ignorance an Idol, of error an Emperor, and of duplicity a Deity are wont betimes to hold blameful not merely the innocent newborn thought in its Heaven-blessed ipseity, but also those swaddling-clothes so lovingly contrived to protect it from misadventure and inconvenience: I am speaking, of course, of that cartapaciatory pallium which the foolish call cacozelia, but which the wise call Style.

In so doing, they seriously mean to imply that the magnanimity of furor loquendi - the munificence of which, when informing any other endeavor, is appositely said to bespeak a reverent attention to those eleemosynary rites specially beloved of God - is, in the case of the poicilogiast, nothing more than some meretricious entertainment devised for the captive audience of the self.

The Tartarean katzenmusik of this bootless colloquy may seem sonorous to those whose oblate harmonic quavers feebly between the vermiculate tines of malice and envy, but it can be productive merely of horripilation in those who have not attained, and will not seek, the station of vere adeptus in our culture's tralatitious Cult of Ugliness. Thus, I must differ deeply - yea, to the depths - with my friend Thers, and petition those for whom textual rugosity is at least contiguous with sanctity to deploy themselves as an asbestine arras against the perfervid contumely of soi-disant simplificationists, whose lurid nudity of expression is nothing less than an abyss in which the most virulent chimaerae of philosophy may enjoy their riotous congress.

17 comments:

Aspasia M. said...

oh my god.

rorschach said...

I am extraordinarily discomfited at your lack of mention of rorschach.

ntodd said...

This post is too long. And there aren't enough pictures, the scary one at the top notwithstanding.

Oh, and boogersnarf.

Thers said...

Emulsified!

Thers said...

I quite like "blameful."

roger said...

(((((?)))))!! your orotund fecundity is awesome dude.

bravo

roger

Samurai Sam said...

Heh. Indeed.

dan mcenroe said...

sigh. you had me at sarcoid efflorescence .

ramona said...

bedizen by bombasticity

Phila said...

Emulsified!

More of a flocculate, I'd say.

juniper pearl said...

this picture is the six-year-old jabba the hutt's self-portrait, no? and he's defined by his gracelessness and love of base, vulgar entertainment, and so i almost understand why you've featured it . . .

oh, no. no, i don't. but it certainly catches the eye.

Phila said...

JP,

It's Turner's "Sunrise With Sea Monsters" (1845). In this context, it's supposed to be a bit like the monsters they used to draw on maps to warn mariners away from the Unknown.

Gentlewoman said...

Oh, well played!

tralatitious Cult of Ugliness

*swoons*

Molly said...

Let us hear it for sanctified contiguous textual rugosity!

four legs good said...

Aiiii-eeeeeee!!

Libby Spencer said...

I'm stunned into rare silence. I have no flosculations worthy of prebition.

TRUTH101 said...

Jesus Lord Almighty. I was impressed when one of the bloggers I frequent used the "feckless." I'll have to have my English major daughter translate this for me.