The Sweet of Love.
Q: What is the sweet of love?
A: The sweet of love is something Mo and the other participants were deriving from a fat tome.
Q: Is the sweet of love "The World of the Imagination: Sum and Substance" by Eva T. H. Brann?
A: The sweet of love is Aldous Huxley seeing the absolute in the folds of his trousers.
When Mo is juiced, the sweet of love is an unfamiliar and distorted sign for lion.
When Mo is sober, the sweet of love is le mot juste.
Then & Now
The sweet of love was once a small step closer to seeing the ghost of a flea.
That was then.
But now the sweet of love is the attitude I want us to have in this workshop.
Now the sweet of love is a black box studio with semi-sprung harlequin floor.
Back then the sweet of love was the Scalloped horizon of Cloud-Cuckoo- Land!
But this is now.
Now the sweet of love is relieved to know that I've got the anxiety pretty much under control.
It may only be temporary,
but for the nonce
the sweet of love means to obey or conform,
as in OBSERVE THE LAW.
It is easier to say what it is not.
The sweet of love is not encroaching decrepitude.
The sweet of love is not a connoisewer of sinenema. (sic)
The sweet of love has a lot of experience under its belt,
but it is not "the taste for emotions of recognition"
nor is it "the taste for emotions of surprise."
The sweet of love reinforces the idea and refreshes the image of a wish fulfilled,
but it is not spattered with black Braille read by blind fingers of rain.
The sweet of love is perhaps the most pessimistic and amoral formulation in all human thought but
it is not meaningless bursts of chemical and electrical neural activity, all noise and no signal.
The sweet of love is not the "spirit" in a spirit level,
nor is it the dustball
via the nine-pin
and the electric fire
The sweet of love is open and in it you can pack away your woe and close the lid on it.
The sweet of love may be a reminder of the very real power that unreal things can wield, that the unreal can kill you.
It's possible that the sweet of love is the KIN in KINDNESS.
We have no proof, but there are strong indications that the sweet of love may be an industry in which fortunes are made.
The sweet of love is so vast that most of the books I've looked at over the past several months, within a few pages of opening them and beginning to read, seem to have a bearing on the subject,
which suggests it may be the preoccupation with one's personal lifelessness.
it may be a small bottle of colored glass that had once held hydrogen peroxide.
What is it that drains the rainbow and withers a wood?
It may be the sweet of love.
Who has not felt more dead than alive? Try not to imagine it on a wet T-shirt worn by you-know-who!
But if we're vampires, we must be dead.
I said it to hear what it would sound like.
No wonder we crave to be more alive, we're looking to wake up!
And vultures are alive, while vampires aren't.
The sweet of love is a turning point in everyone's life--the moment you wake up to the fact that you're asleep.
And then the mission for many of us becomes the sweet of love.
Ideas? Intensity? Images?
No, these are dead names for the sweet of love.
If it's dead we won't touch it.
Or mere mind candy?
Not the sweet of love.
For example, imagine you had a meter, like a light meter for photography, only this didn't measure luminescence or phosphorescence, this measured the phorescence of metaphors.
Let's use it to measure the sweet of love.
The sweet of love buries the needle.
The sweet of love is described metaphorically as a devious beast, a horse, very alright.
The sweet of love calls a fig a fig, a trough a trough, a nootropic drug a "cognitive enhancer."
O, sweet of love, most beautiful, most wise and most terrible lithographic illustration, I exist only to serve you, to sing your praises and protect you from being stained, torn of burned and pray that you will extend your mercy to me in stains, wrinkles and fire ...
The sweet of love had telegraph keys installed in the seance tables.
scoot toot suite
in suitable boots
(meet for feet).
* "The Sweet of Love" by Lorna Flambeaux, from Gilbert Sorrentino's' Odd Number.
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|Title Annotation:||PART 1: On Mulligan Stew|
|Publication:||The Review of Contemporary Fiction|
|Article Type:||Critical essay|
|Date:||Jun 22, 2011|
|Previous Article:||Still Standing: A Memoir for Gilbert Sorrentino.|
|Next Article:||Further reading: a selected bibliography.|