The economy of the metaphor that John Wilkinson' appearance-picture has
suggested to fans of his poetry, and himself, is a wonder to behold. The
mellifluousness of his prosodic control, makes his work, of course, a
Model to be emulated, and should one find that certain Sentimental
Verbotens have crossed one's lips, one can always flush them out with the
laxatives Irony and Critical Theory, which too may be obtained under the
brandname "Parataxis" from Drew Milne, General Purveyor, at Trinity Hall.
But of course, what is really hilarious, is that John's appearance-picutre
will never have the opportunity to collude in that supposedly 'glossy
women's magazines' perpetuated system (tiramisu recipes on the one
page, Kate Moss on the next), nor will he be judged, or feel himself
oppressively judged, by his looks. His dashing looks (not to faint
praise) could be commodified (GQ, say?) but there still will be no
relation to his male model function in that entire industry and the wards
of anorexic patients.
And isn't it wonderful how contemporary society allows for all kinds of
new currencies to circulate in old bee-hive images?
Karlien
P.S. John, did I forget to tell you, after you pointed it out, that I had
confused the title "Saccades" with succade (which is a Dutch word for
crystallised sugar, from 'suc' Fr. nectar) no wonder this transposition
horrified you so much.
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