Gothic means many things to different people. It’s a much overused term. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte) and Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte) are two of the finest exemplars of the gothic novel – this much is received wisdom – but their evocation of the gothic ideal is as different as the shadow and stone.
I’ve often heard Howl and The Wasteland paired before, in the smokeless midnight air of alt-coffee urban popups, listening for free as a mumbling hipster reads them aloud, back-to-back, in the same reverent cadence and double bass rhythm and nobody listening to the words…
I don’t like it when English is used badly (or lazily) in ways that – for whatever reason – get accepted into normal everyday usage. It’s good when language grows but too often it’s a case of importing one word, at the price of losing others.
Personality is the iceberg tip of a multidimensional internal universe of the mind. The conscious tip doesn’t know much about what’s happening in the exponentially larger elsemind but psychedelic excitation – like a D.M.T. trip – brings tip and base into profound contact. Temporarily.
Compare and contrast of the ‘beat’ heavyweights Alan Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, the former destined to live long and popular, a fine intellectual force on the American scene, the latter doomed to die young and unhappy but undeniably a genius in the global pantheon.
Social media is a quixotic chain gang, prisoners shackled together by some antithesis of merit – failed wannabe artists, lazy scavengers of other people’s renown – craving the recognition talent might have brought them, to fill the void of unfulfilled sociopath self-regard.
Words are powerful. Monolithic powers appropriate words and redefine usage to control public opinion. But modern nations don’t benefit from tribalism. Blame culture is a sickness, eroding society from within; an excuse for tearing down but never the creating. Words like “posh” are the stealthy outlier carriers for this plague.