Deconstruction in graphic novels.
Deconstruction in graphic novels.
The Grizzly Bear is huge and wild;
He has devoured the infant child.
The infant child is not aware
It has been eaten by the bear.
A.E. Housman
“I go to the library, and I open my laptop, and I sit there, regardless of whether or not I feel like it. I gave a reading at a high school the other day, and one of the students asked, ‘what do you do when you don’t feel inspired?’, and I said ‘I’ve never in my life felt inspired, it’s not a question of inspiration.’ It’s a question of this mundane, or this seemingly mundane act of will. I just go, and I’ve committed myself to this project of trying to be honest, and it’s not like a glorious revelation, it’s an incredibly difficult, frustrating, self-deprecating act.”
— Jonathan Safran Foer (interviewed by Charlie Rose)
The old hag-like woman who lives downstairs from me is in my room, curled-up on the floor in a fetal position. She sobs and complains about my television, too terrified to stare at the screen. At first, I am surprised at the sight of her there, but soon the shock gives way to a disturbing fear, almost as if I understand her despair and come to realize the unspeakable horror that she must have conceived on the TV. All this is gravely unsettling and when the terror reaches a climax, I wake up! The eyes are wide open. The body is paralyzed, pinned to the bed in panic from the chimerical visions of the nightmare. The mind, perhaps not fully awakened from deep slumber, hangs in a state of twilight, suspended in a lull, beyond wakefulness or the apparent consciousness of a dream. In the dark, I stare at emptiness, without the use of mind and body, half dead and alive. For a fleeting moment I experience an intense thrill in this state of merely being, like a ghost floating through ether. Dilated eyes, dry mouth and palpitations - an endorphin high!
Soon this blissful, ethereal peregrination fades away. I see the cherubic face of the hag’s daughter. There is a discomforting soreness in my mouth, which has perhaps been wide open for some time. The cherub’s beatific countenance, without the slightest suggestion, transforms into a menacing grimace and the eyes turn black; deep and dark like the eyes of the devil, like that antichristical priest from Carnivàle on TV. I gasp for air and spring upright on the bed. The half-conscious slumber is gone and I am wide awake, although disoriented and confused. As I make a leap for the light switch, I catch the dying sound of the echoes of a scream, reflected in the walls around me.
The tamasha (a Persian word meaning “fun,” “play,” or “spectacle”) originated at the beginning of the 18th century in Maharashtra as an entertainment for the camping Mughal armies. This theatrical form was created by singing girls and dancers imported from North India and the local acrobats and tumblers of the lower-caste Dombari and Kolhati communities with their traditional manner of singing. It flourished in the courts of Maratha rulers of the 18th and 19th centuries and attained its artistic apogee during the reign of Baji Rao II (1796–1818). Its uninhibited lavani-style singing and powerful drumming and dancing give it an erotic flavor. The most famous tamasha poet and performer was Ram Joshi (1762–1812) of Sholapur, an upper class Brahmin who married the courtesan Bayabai. Another famous singer-poet was Patthe Bapu Rao (1868–1941), a Brahmin who married a beautiful low-caste dancer, Pawala. They were the biggest tamasha stars during the first quarter of the 20th century. The tamasha actress, commonly called the nautchi (meaning “nautch girl,” or “prostitute”) is the life and soul of the performance. Because of their bawdy elements, women never see tamasha plays, nor do respectable men.
Source: Brittanica Online Encyclopedia