No one ever believes me when I say that I think of myself as "angry writer" or "dissident intellectual." I think Briullov queried why I like that adjective, "dissident," so much. My Animus just laughed in my face. I have, nevertheless, convinced myself that I ought to identify as an angry intellectual, that I was a stereotype and a cliche but one that's proven to work, that I should enjoy it.
Now that I have an Animus, now with a new thing by which people will try to identify me, I feel less threatened by the prospect of those as negative stereotypes as by any "boxing" through their introduction. I'm still the Frozen Icarus. I'm still so (theoretically) rebellious.
I know there's nothing new in what I'm saying. It's not necessarily the writer's task to present something new, as much as to phrase the old in an elucidating way. My own idea of myself is under fire. How can I fight against people assuming I am "just" anything? I prefer the ideas, though sometimes self-contradictory when I gather them up like this, of the Simones and the Judiths and the Michaels.
No transvestites on the bus for you.
3 months ago