The Labyrinth within Literary Space

‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

The Labyrinth of literary space will fill your head with ideas, ideas which you can not quite tell what are. Like deja vecu you will swear you can feel the very memory of remembering what it was you exactly thought or felt yet it will be like trying to catch water in your hands, forever slipping through the gaps before you forget with absolution what it was you were trying to gather in the first place. Intention is everything when you attempt to gather water with your fingertips, as the egg said; “When I use a word…it means just what I chose it to mean – neither more nor less.” (p.196)
It is not quite like this, egg.
Words cannot not be completely bent to your individual will.
You are not complete Master with words – though you will inflect them with the velocity of your will and the particular angle of your approach. Portmanteaux, open facing doors that with the will of the egg become mirrored and infinite, reflecting meaning back upon meaning ad nauseum; like Methusala, the sentence that has an endless self-reflexivity has already been born.
Immortality can be achieved through slips of the tongue, with a frumious and slithe turn of phrase, phrases themselves will be turned and twisted chirally so that they may produce the linguistic equivalent to the Mobius Strip, that loop upon themselves along a boundary of meaning. Sisyphus pushes his boulder. The boulder pushes against Sisyphus. The myth is self-reflexive, this is the cause of the terror and absurdity of the human lot, not the recognition of meaninglessness but the fear of the infinitude of meaning itself, contracting in upon itself before expanding out into the world, like a breath like a never-ending labour, the mother of which and the child of which, the forces of idleness and repression, of intellectual pessimism and entrenched arrogance would have us believe, sit on either side of the gates of meaning, the one seeming woman to the waist, “…and fair, But ended foul in many a scaly fold/Voluminous and vast, a serpent armed/With mortal sting: about her middle round/A cry of Hell-hounds never ceasing barked/With wide Cerberean mouths full loud, and rung/A hideous peal…” Whilst the other, a shape, “If shape it might be called that shape had none/ Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb,/Or substance might be called that shadow seemed,/For each seemed either; black it stood as Night,/Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell…”
But no! Every turn of the boulder should be a revolution! A song sung simultaneously rightwards, leftwards, forwards and backwards, upwards, downwards and everywaywards, for life for language for love. Repetitious linguistic birth and phonological assimilation are not, as they would have you think, the birth of Sin and Death but instead a glorious Lexicalisation. Every word you speak has the capacity to burst into its own unique universe; where the light is aureate, language is light.


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