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Masters of Faust They're the Gone Kings

fig. 3b) figure elevation

The construction of any stylistic work with seemingly random elements suggests by contrast a hum-drumming of the tools of interpretation and their potential. But first she'll console him. She'll declare her love quickly and then move on into the second act. A formal bridge in any well defined arc of narrative if ever there was but not to be confused with any real presence or heft. If they were believable they might be excused for their fluidity or for something red. But they don't deserve a reward for plain old utilitarian mendacity.
The voice of epoch is to be expected and it's found again and again in such dear works of calculation and preciousness. It's plain that it's derivation is the chuff of a sad engine sneaking around the bend. We'll watch this thing as it tumbles into hysterics. We'll go mad. We'll be gone from our choice of fantasy in the space of so much poverty when we should be well in our mind. Instead in our eye's we will be poor bent and drooling simple. But we should be plain and not marching in droves with the bitter colors of this thing left on us like a fucking stain. Its such sadness to waste any plutocrat, even here...
Barrister's Clerk: Undulate waves of gold, and bricks, and wizard poop.
Stenographer's Witness: Tableau form of a greasy peanut stained little tableau.
Barrister's Clerk: cadence and pattern TBD, yolk of the plow and simple yolk of the plow.
Stenographer's Witness: Again and then again we'll see.
Then when we're finally awake in the third act our voice should be dynamic instead we'll be cold and alone. Here is where we discover that we're in the stable and we're hungry. We could be better and in greater control but we've been left at the low end of our threshold. We neither settle nor abide we're standing idle and slack with the steaming team and its bucket of mash and grain. The golden chaff of hay at our feet through these silent scenes. We're supposed to experience the apple of sweetness of romance and the depth of its failure its falling and its finality. So after I die then Charlotte faints. She'll bend and succumb to the lasting dark but you'll experience this as the profound echo of your relief. So after I die, when I'm gone and the curtain drops then I'll go without pity or rage. - From an unprecedented review of Werther.

 

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