It has absorbed the essence of postmodernist thought which seeks to question the most basic assumptions of reality. It seeks to separate the author from the work for purposes of analysis. The faculty office door must remain closed to allow for the fullest purity of the endeavour that is literary analysis. With the author excised, and with an argument presented to bolster the assertion of non-contextuality in the work to be examined, the scholar is given free rein to invent whatever pleases them, provided the thesis is properly assembled. Under the vast umbrella of postmodernism, personal interpretations have egalitarian virtue. The text is neutered of intention at its source the author , to be dismantled and reassembled at leisure. As with all art, in other words, the creator ceases to be relevant and the audience is made eminent. By this means am I divested of all responsibility for what I write. What a relief. Just as I no longer have any say in how a reader interprets or feels about anything I write, the only thing that binds me to their expectations leaves the field of literary criticism behind and ventures into the crass world of consumerism, popularity, and publishing, since these market forces will decide if I am or am not a successful writer. De-contextualizing a work of art is the gentle injection that puts it to eternal sleep. No longer any risky vivisection awaiting the examiner. Just flat out, stiff-as-a-board-body dissection. Here the limits can be decided upon, the parameters clearly defined, the self-as-audience raised on the highest pedestal. Michael Bishop gave readers a frank report about his cancer in a public Facebook post. Its spread complicates treatment options, as do the lingering effects of earlier surgeries, and so, for now, excision is out and chemotherapy looms as the safest if not the fastest approach to returning me to healthy-featherless-biped status. My second reason is selfish: I covet your prayers, good wishes, positive vibes, unalloyed sympathy, etc. Forgive these prohibitions, my obvious inability to suffer in silence, and my fear-deflecting facetiousness. And bless you all. Jim C. Click the link for a lovely photo. This was causing trouble with things like reaching into a pocket or putting on a glove. It was also messing with my typing. When I finally met with the surgeon, he said I should have come in before it got to this point. Earlier on in the progression, they can do less invasive procedures to help. The surgeon said things went pretty well. He was able to get the fingers pretty much straight, though they may not stay perfectly straight as they heal. I was bandaged up and put in a splint to try to hold the finger straight as much as possible …. Almost all of the monthly digests had gone out of print. But the genre seems to have found its feet and is stomping off in a new direction. They have the stamp of a modern era, an indisputable sense of s. He would draw directly on these granite peaks and grassy troughs for the landscape of Narnia. How much comparison you draw between this rocky realm and the pages of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe is perhaps a matter of personal perspective. Lewis spent happy childhood holidays in the village, and the trail attempts to communicate some of this innocent joy to visitors. The path begins with a wardrobe door — and, as with C. As does a lamp-post akin to the one beneath which Lucy first espies Mr Tumnus. The Cloughmore Trail — also in Kilbroney Park — requires slightly more effort, ebbing for 2. It features a large rounded boulder which, according to local legend, represents the stone table on which spoiler alert! Aslan is sacrificed by the White Witch….
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