For no one who wholeheartedly shares in a given sensibility can analyze it; he can only, whatever his intention, exhibit it. To name a sensibility, to draw its contours and to recount its history, requires a deep sympathy modified by revulsion.
Susan Sontag, “Notes On Camp”
Change sensibility to scene, and you have my day today.
What?
Ah, never mind, it’s not worth linking.
(via bramble)
A break from univocally happy tumbling: Susan Sontag? How did her writing gain any traction? It’s not as if I’m so bright, but she’s like the most overblown shitheel writer I’ve ever read. Shame on her.
