|
In June, 1998, Thomas Pynchons opening epigram in the hypertext novel The Unknown resounded like a rifle-shot from computers across the world and announced a literary revolution. The Unknown had redefined
the lyric parameters of popular literature, demonstrating that the
seemingly cold hypertext idiom could express the most sophisticated and
ambiguous emotions. But this was something elsethis was a rock
record. It was not a two-minute-and-thirteen second rock and roll
single, it wasnt about dancing or driving or teenage love lost and
found. This was an electric epic, simple in its sentence structure but
remarkably complex and ambitious in its scope. Its length, subject
matter, and medium were totally at odds with what constitutes a hit
single.
First, it clocked in at a gargantuan five hundred pages, easily twice as
long as a readable hypertext novel was meant to be. It was also
lyrically daunting, defying all attempts to fix its precise storyline,
yet arresting in its coupling of a childish malevolence with a sense of
pain and disillusionment far more adult than anything normally read on
a website.
Fred Goodman, from The Hotel on the Hill: Gillespie,
Rettberg, Stratton, and the Head-on Collision of Literature and Commerce
Prior
to visiting old friends at Brown University, we opened for the
Rolling Stones at Madison Square Gardens. We found out a secret: Keith
Richards is dead. For their studio recordings, they use Adrian Belew, not
to be confused with Jeff Ballowe, the Internet visionary. For stage
performances, Richard's stand-in is Iggy Pop in wig and sequined vest. There is still heroin
in their dressing room, or so it seems to the casual observer. The
secret is that its really baby laxative these days, meant
to impress the press. It does however, keep the guys regular when they
are on tour, without the nasty problems that the real thing might
cause.
Being on stage in front of a thousand people in their late forties and
fifties had been nice.
Were putting the text back into hypertext, Scott offered. You know
how Pete Townsend has a wall of guitars? Well William here has a wall of typewriters.
|
|