Fiction explained

Fiction explained. Pilot episode.



Prospero Dae

Love Story

Sprague Dawley

Prospero Dae

Going to Vegas

Passion fruit flower

Slinking across the curbless roads of Dante’s inferno, I found this flower and thought spontaneously that Beatrice would adore it (not that I have much opportunity to converse with her–or to know what she likes or doesn’t like–as I’ve haven’t seen her in years). Virgil called it a weed, but he’s a poet and must have some secret knowledge of its rank in this nethermost hell. Just the other day I said, “Vir, what’s this ferny looking thing?” and he said, after pausing to think, “a weed.” It was a passion-flower. And so I am faced with the heartbreaking realization that Virgil is a bit of a fraud when it comes to appreciating the tangible delights of this or that scaffold of green and its concomitant splashes of salmon or touches of tangerine or whatever. To summarize: my poet is such a disappointment–and a lousy guide to boot. Moreover, pontificating today about the damnation of souls is a hard sell. Better to stick with popular topics such as the effete tincture of corruption that is tainting international football.

And speaking of Dante’s inferno, there’s Vegas.

Prospero Dae

Ceci n’est pas une fleur

Thevetia peruviana

Two people studying a painting in a roomy art galley. One is an imbecile and the other is the artist. Requisite dialogue ensues.

“What’s it supposed to be?” asked the beady-eyed nincompoop, rubbing his chin.
“It’s not supposed to be anything,” remonstrated the great modernist painter. “It’s abstract.”
“Oh,” said the nincompoop.

And so René Magritte, the Belgian painter, presented his audience with The Treachery of Images, a conundrum.

The infamous painting is often cited as an example of self-reference. The painting is that of a tobacco pipe. Underneath are the words ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe’ which translate to This is not a pipe. And, in fact, it isn’t a pipe–it’s an image of a pipe. ‘This or Ceci’ may refer to the image of the pipe, the painting itself, or even the sentence–but it keeps pointing back to itself.

A reader of this blog writes: “I’ll give this post an 8½ out of 10.”

An astute reader adds: “Fellini and Magritte! What next?”

Sceletium tortuosum update







Prospero, what is time?

(As if anyone would ask such a cosmological question of a madman!)

Time, my friend (wink, wink), is something that eccentric Spaniards paint.

[Now I really must interject. These sorts of aphoristic statements were fine for cinéaste Robert Bresson, but are no longer in vogue, even in today’s film industry, for present day film directors are, in the main, wholly unaccustomed to the rigors of thought. And Prospero is probably referring to Salvador Dali’s malleable clocks in The Persistence of Memory. But obscurantism is also passé, and there is little hope, I suppose, for those in exile who hollowly hark back to the days of old, have a fitful fascination for French film directors, and use with frustrating frequency words that have tiptoed, under cover of an umbrageous linguistic hinterland, from one language to another. Ed.]

To be or not to be