If you had of asked me on a given day whether I'd one day end up passionately defending fanfiction, I would have given you a strange look. I don't read any of the stuff anymore, and my own endeavors in the field ceased long ago. And yet, I found myself reading Robin Hobb's rant (Swifty: The rant was taken down sometime after this entry was posted) with growing outrage, not just because I disagreed with Hobb's sentiments, but because I COULDN'T BELIEVE that a published author of some repute could hold opinions so closed-minded, reactionary, and ridiculous. The outrage, though, stemmed not so much from this as from the idea that Hobb's opinions, through her position as an eminent fantasy author, could actually discourage young writers from practicing fanfiction, and thus, exercising their creativity. Therefore, SOMETHING MUST BE DONE. THIS SHIT CANNOT STAND.
**Mild spoiler warning for both versions of Cinema Paradiso** Was watching the director's cut version of Cinema Paradiso (called the 'New Version') on DVD with my dad a few nights ago. Now already regarded as a classic, I've definitely heard of this 1988 Italian film (made in 1988, released internationally in 1990... I think) for a really long time, but never really had the opportunity to find either the chance, or the mood to watch it even though my dad has the DVD of the original for years. Dad managed to borrow the Cinema Paradiso: New Version DVD from his friend, which he hadn't seen, so we watched it together. Father and son watching a nice coming-of-age story of a boy and his friendship with a father figure, awesome. To the uninitiated, film's about a famous film director who returns home to a Sicilian village for the first time after almost 30 years to attend a funeral of Alfredo, an old friend. He reminisces about his childhood at the Cinema Pa
Mishima is a writer associated with scale and grand gestures. Apart from his colorful life and the obviously theatrical nature of his public suicide, his novels are full of, to put it bluntly, action - in a 'literary fiction' genre often filled with tepid introspection and obsessive minimalism, that Mishima's books are full of swordfighting, arson, suicide, and desperate tragedy is definitely part of his appeal. Although his writing is capable of great subtlety, restraint, and delicate beauty, these qualities usually form one half of a chiaroscuric contrast, shadowing the dense psychological monologues and eruptions of violence.
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