On a concept of the higher-journalist Zizek

Survey on the higher-journalist Zizek’s conception of the advent of “kitsch”, with Illustration,

Question: What is the significance of the doctrine of “Kitsch”? That the “new” is ruinous to the tradition, as in the “tragic” Socratic break (cf. Hegel).

In blue shadow, in crumpled gorge, in a remote country, in a small village, there lived alongside the Alps, a true musician. He passed his youth in the civilization left over by the British Empire, within it he was moved by the vanished glory of Catholic and German music. His long tawny fingers produced compositions that surpassed the possibility of the world. The peculiarly magnificent strains of his notes gushed his love of nature. It seemed as though nature herself was singing a praise of solemn thanks for her being. Like Palestrina and Bach, his restless experiments with counterpoint brought him every more fiercely under the spell of an utterly naked creative genius, congenial to his innermost longings.

The youth grew into maturity, fine and handsome the son of farmers married and had sons and daughters, worked in the fields, but truly lived only in the realm of music. So out of step with the planet was his village he was thirty and did not even know the name Wagner, not to say Stockhausen. The tempo and brilliance of his work were unheard of and grew increasingly exciting and daring. One day a copy of the boorish Zizek-gazette, “Hebdomadal Zizek”, found its way into his hands, delivered by some thoughtless passing architecture/design student. He held it in his unstained hands, his ever rejoicing eyes filled with the novelty of its brilliantly reflective pages, he gazed steadily upon the table of contents. How strange it was! Suddenly he found the word music and turned to the article, his emotions in a riot. After several long minutes he turned his face up sharply, his lips formed a curse and his bloodshot eyes showed with anguish.

(Story by an anonymous Polish student of Alexander Dugin, no copyright.)

Right there is no media that transcends right or wrong left or right poetry and novel ontology - the great compression of existence with it, will be like the modern smudge created by Henry Miller in Bosch in the Oranges and Big Sir, when he overlay corrections without drying out.
A parlance of modern art., per point counterpoint.

You are neglecting, I fear, Meno, Miller’s “A Devil in Paradise”, where he describes the title character as wearing the music of Palestrina which “was neither new nor old”. This, however, is, due to its being uninterrupted. A similar example is the development of refined craft in Japan, before the destruction of quality by bourgeoisie Western industry.

A great and more literal equivalence exists in the Voltaire-Platon relationship with the above example, where, there is a compression of a new-mythical characterization of Voltaire on a theme by Plato. I guess an apparent continuity covers differences, even monumental breaks
which in all honesty in certain cases should remain intact.

Interruption do to misplaced characterization may also swing both: figuratively in music , as inBenjamin Britten’s
Young People’s Guide to the Orchestra.
(Where individual instruments describe themselves in terms of self description, rather then a community of sounds describing a pastoral scene or idea, or even another person.

According to my totally reliable informant, Ernest Gellner, Voltaire produced a large number of sheer idiocies which he placed over the little word “rational” (which is not a critique of his general output, but of a large numbers of particular imbecilities characteristic, however, of people bearing the title card “rational” whilst being wholly aware of, at the very least, their bounded rationality: viz: Obama’s murder of Colonel Qaddafi, after being told the issue, a drive to put down the rebels in Benghazi, precipitated by Obama’s own international hectoring and threats against Quadaffi and his family, was synonymous with Rwanda, an absurd metaphor: such is called, these days, a “rational decision” for the reason that it is a deliberated over decision! Nothing more.). Volitarie, nuanced in other vectors, was one of the great letter writers, some examples I have jostled with my minute attentions. I digress. I know not, Meno, of his work with Plato, but of his famous bashing of Aristotle following the proofs of Galileo and Hobbes. What is Plato’s myth? It is not like this trivial modern “rationality” at all. What myth? Plato, never, did, make a myth he did not call by its name. What say you. The ideas are not orgulous or canted myths. They are simply an answer to the question, what are “kinds” of things?. True, the European science (in its guise as “naturalism”), taken literally, denies that kinds of things exist in favor of heterogeneous “bits”.

but let us not disregard the paltry little adage ‘écrasez l’infâme’ of that blighted intolerance for the doltish sentiments of the eternally vapid and discontent! the rigmarole of the saxony negotiations was enough to drive one daft, nay, even by neoclassical standards such a profuse diversion begs and harkens for quotidian reproach!

Guide, Plato never made. myth for sure, but between reality as we now conceive it, and the imagenitive use of conceptual construction, it can generally be held that the image transpires between the new and that which has passed. It is in that sense, that data is interpreted and “it” matters only exclusively, as a passing, in an uninterrupted sense.

The point is, against it’s counterpoint, that such a passing , as uninterrupted as it may flow, can mask the minute gaps, the cuts, whirring along, forming the impression of non interruption.
This minutely often missed subtly is what differentiates as per Zeno, Plato and Aristotle; and Indirectly Heraclitus from Parmenedies. Zeno could not form a mythological nexus not because he feared a perceptual magnification, but because he worked under the opposite effect’s presumption.

This minimilization was formed from a paradoxical reality, with little imagination other them devolving his reality into it’s most common denominator, the prefigurement of
exclusion one in favor of the other. This rationality , held in praxis for many years , held in bay, until the enlightenment captured the imagination, and became a politocal tool of vampiric proportions , used to inflate or deflate public and private imagination often to a fever pitch.
Myth and archetype became linked for necessary reasons. Politocal necessity extracted from art it’s own sake, to support caricatures easily expunged.

Such caricatures did help enormously , on the other hand, with inward journeys into the psychic realms, where the outer political dimensions of economy, became useful predictors
of the opposite expectations.

Economy , real, always avoided the formal luxury of the past’s preoccupation with qualifying modern notions of the objects and objectives of the body politic as machinery manufactured products.

Ill try to deal with Your Immediately prior proceeding as You may have anticipated a contiutive reaction on my part.

“Reproach” of the world is easy. Most people are wretches, and amazingly stupid. But, it is not the fault of the more intelligent. Or, of Catholics, who, in my estimation, were often, and for centuries, the most thoughtful of beings. Reproach is boring.

What does this refer to? The silly, time wasting, “Plato’s Dream” burlesque (absurd caricature) and such like? The truth is, Voltaire was simply a shallow man, a socialite, uninterested in serious thought.

PS

I couldn’t understand anything you wrote. I am in a hurry. I may never return.

Dramatis Personae!

Must You? In spite of large fish in smaller ponds, it would be heroic of You to stay in a world of no exit, in a nihiliatically subjective world! Or,
have faith in some redeeming qualities, where The Arte transperspires through the minimum allotted.

Between lines such sweet misery succumbs treacherously.

The inward journey’s could refer to catholic absolution for the myth according. to Saint Thomas (Szasz)

But fly, oh fly, into the outer lands of tribulation, don’t let one like me stop You.