All they wanted was to know how. I could do this, I could invent something . . . It is 1991, and on a trip to the United States to research a new novel, British artist and writer Brinsel Thomas discovers she has more to deal with than just writing. When two police officers show up at her door with questions, her next stop is the police station. One little lie intended to extricate herself from what she is certain is a terrible mistake instead snowballs into a story she cannot get out of, trapped with a secret she cannot risk giving away. Instead of working on her novel, Brinsel finds herself enlisted to help solve a murder, attempting to fabricate an incriminating correspondence, shedding a few copyrights, and dodging insistently prying questions. There is one person who she is convinced might be able to help her: a private detective and sometime-professional musician named Max Thompson. Then again, he might not. Because there is one enormous, indisputable complication . . .
These poems are not muscular, literary, or award-winning. Instead they are slightly dangerous, filled with banana peels, sharp objects, reflex hammers, and various items you could not send through US mail. They also contain stories, possibly one of the most dangerous things ever invented. There are stories about trees, people, other people, artwork, near-misses of artwork, bears, barns, and a convention of angels. There are stories of forgiveness, remembrance, peaches, peonies, and poems themselves. For ease of use, each poem is equipped with useful punctuation marks and extra white space. Handle with care. You may be stuck with them.
This book is concerned with the continuing viability of both Freud and Hegel to the reading of modern literature. The book begins with Julia Kristeva’s attempts to relate Hegelian thought to a psychoanalytically informed conception of semiotics that was first explored in her influential study, The Revolution of Poetic Language, and then modified in later books that develop semiotics in new directions. Kristeva’s agreements and disagreement with Hegel are important to the book’s argument, which ultimately defends Hegel against familiar, poststructuralist detractions. However, the book’s conceptual argument requires a historical exposition, with chapters devoted to literary figures ranging from Spenser to Ishiguro. One of the purposes of the book is to demonstrate that Hegel’s contribution to modern thought is at least partially exhibited in the history of literature, which also corroborates some of the deeper insights of psychoanalysis.
All they wanted was to know how. I could do this, I could invent something . . . It is 1991, and on a trip to the United States to research a new novel, British artist and writer Brinsel Thomas discovers she has more to deal with than just writing. When two police officers show up at her door with questions, her next stop is the police station. One little lie intended to extricate herself from what she is certain is a terrible mistake instead snowballs into a story she cannot get out of, trapped with a secret she cannot risk giving away. Instead of working on her novel, Brinsel finds herself enlisted to help solve a murder, attempting to fabricate an incriminating correspondence, shedding a few copyrights, and dodging insistently prying questions. There is one person who she is convinced might be able to help her: a private detective and sometime-professional musician named Max Thompson. Then again, he might not. Because there is one enormous, indisputable complication . . .
These poems are not muscular, literary, or award-winning. Instead they are slightly dangerous, filled with banana peels, sharp objects, reflex hammers, and various items you could not send through US mail. They also contain stories, possibly one of the most dangerous things ever invented. There are stories about trees, people, other people, artwork, near-misses of artwork, bears, barns, and a convention of angels. There are stories of forgiveness, remembrance, peaches, peonies, and poems themselves. For ease of use, each poem is equipped with useful punctuation marks and extra white space. Handle with care. You may be stuck with them.
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