All Literature is Discourse but not all Discourse is Literary
a short story
You know the saying about cognac and brandy, don’t you? All cognac is brandy, but not all brandy is cognac. I guess this is of no never mind, about brandy and cognac, about how all of the latter is the former but not all of the former is the latter. What this has to do with the opinions of this intelligent man represented here and told to you by me the narrator I am not going to say specifically.
Please find relayed by the narrator me, the opinion of an intelligent man, at least in the opinions of many who know him, but who do not tell him. He understands this even if he does not always understand them.
“No, The Nobel Committee Got it Right; Dylan Awarded Appropriately,” would have been the title of what ensues below, if it had been published, let’s say as a blog entry, as this here is a published blog entry, never liking blogging, either this man or myself, but then who I am herein is and is not of any never mind–what exactly does that mean or say if meaning is not ready at hand, in hand, my pen to page because I still write long hand in notebooks . . . another question ensuing another question and another question until the last syllable of these written words, a recording of a kind:
Dylan’s Lyrics . . . yes–never trite, never insipid, never pandering, never media simplistic, never gorged on pop; always intelligent, always sensitive, always pristine. I’ve grown to be able to listen to him by expanding a degree of narrowness in my ears–I used to imagine his voice grating on me. This to me is another testimony to the power of his words—they superseded that voice, if I can now say on screen with my tongue firmly in my cheek, the Left cheek, if you get what I mean.
What more would you want me to say about what he said or night have said or that I have imagined him saying, think I can say based in having known him as I assume I know him well, believe I am entitled to say based on what I feel is my unique way of being a friend if not extending friendship, although not always in the ways other might imagine this–need? Is it need that you have?
From what has herein been tagged . . . by whom? I could ask, but that would be disingenuous even within the confines of the fiction. The author, whoever he may be, what? What then is this as a piece of short fiction that I the narrator, what? What is it about me that remains distinct from another author, even if you have confounded or confused us, separate, as we must stay.
What is it that you want to know that should tell you itself . . . authors author; narrators narrate, story-tellers tell stories, writers write. What? What does this mean? I am the narrator in itself . . . and this in itself is because narrator is a role, therefore a thing, therefore it.
Yes, I am it.
This is it.