- Later, attempting to understand this impact, I discovered that Burroughs had incorporated snippets of other writers’ texts into his work, an action I knew my teachers would have called plagiarism.
Some of these borrowings had been lifted from American science fiction of the ’40s and ’50s, adding a secondary shock of recognition for me.
(…)
Sampling. Burroughs was interrogating the universe with scissors and a paste pot, and the least imitative of authors was no plagiarist at all.
Some 20 years later, when our paths finally crossed, I asked Burroughs whether he was writing on a computer yet.
„What would I want a computer for?” he asked, with evident distaste. „I have a typewriter.”
But I already knew that word processing was another of God’s little toys, and that the scissors and paste pot were always there for me, on the desktop of my Apple IIc. Burroughs’ methods, which had also worked for Picasso, Duchamp, and Godard, were built into the technology through which I now composed my own narratives. Everything I wrote, I believed instinctively, was to some extent collage. Meaning, ultimately, seemed a matter of adjacent data.
i tak teraz myślę, że największy mam żal do bolszewików (tfu!), że nas od świata
o d d z i e l i l i. . .
i że wyważaliśmy drzwi (do percepcji) już dawno szeroko otwarte…
- We seldom legislate new technologies into being. They emerge, and we plunge with them into whatever vortices of change they generate. We legislate after the fact, in a perpetual game of catch-up, as best we can, while our new technologies redefine us – as surely and perhaps as terribly as we’ve been redefined by broadcast television.
„Who owns the words?” asked a disembodied but very persistent voice throughout much of Burroughs’ work. Who does own them now? Who owns the music and the rest of our culture? We do. All of us.
Though not all of us know it – yet.
znakomity text.
spore fragmenty – bo może (kiedyś) Wired zmieni politykę…