J.K. Cohen, Amateur Rhotacist
I am a small, nervous bundle of querulous energy, mostly resident in a state
of distraction. From time to time, I peck at the bars of whatever cage I happen
to be in at the time. I long, with some wistfulness, for the "Block That Metaphor"
column from the old New Yorker; the octopus of Communism has not yet
sung its swan song.
There are no great archives of fiction here; this is little more
than a phatic signpost, to mark my space as a minor talk.bizarre
contributor -- low volume, high quality, but that's the proud
fluttering van of many a literary nonentity.
Three short-short t.b. postings:
- People Meeting The Rebbe
- Sweetheart of Sigmund Freud
- The Capybara
For some idea of what I do in real life, there's my ordinary home
page. Suffice it to say that, though I'm barely qualified to
look down the wrong end of a sed stream, I'm paid equitable sums
to mount W3 pages of all sizes, shapes and descriptions for a
major university bookstore. (This page should not be taken as a
journeyman sample of my art.) My actual training is in the
nugatory field of comparative literature. What sorts of
literature I compare (the number one cocktail-party-newbie
question) will probably remain my own business, but it will lead
me to the dry and dusty death I doubtless deserve. I am a repository
of millions of small facts; they are useless but happy friends.
Nonetheless, I hate academia and (with some notable exceptions)
academicians; the relation between
me and graduate school can be worked out as an exercise. (Hint: it's
both dialectical and mediated.)
At this stage, I should probably profess likings for
rock-climbing, snakes, police-engine-powered muscle cars, and
shotguns, but those are actually the tastes of a good (female)
friend of mine, which I would be illicitly borrowing in order to
aver that I had a life.
Pictures
For those who simply cannot point their browsers without the
promise of pictures in the offing, here are some. They are
musty but edifying allegories, from an emblem book by Andreas Alciatus called
Emblematum Libellus (Paris, 1542). In the original, these are glossed
by poems in elegant Latin, translated into brutal German. Suggestions for
alternate titles, or for how these got the titles they did
(besides my willful mistranslations), will be cheerfully
accepted.
Additions to this page as the spirit moves me.
J.K. Cohen <jkcohen@uci.edu>
