The Human Text and The New Author

The Human Text and The New Author

some insomniac musings by The Overlord Bear/Jem De Ocampo

The author may be dead, but humanity won’t be.


I like to assume that my art, like my personality, is 99.9% garbage that shall end up overrated after a prolonged period of time by my fellow manchildren who would still be thinking just like or even worse than my self when I made them. I also like to assume that those manchildren also include more marginalized folks who should have a better grasp on right and wrong but, out of a disorderly fear of loneliness and other sorts of suffering we humans inflict upon ourselves out of the clear yet slippery prime suspect that is pride, refuse to admit that they are fellow humans who can be as bad as and even worse than what we are trying to fight against, even as they support ideas like how art can make humanity immortal and how art can be separated from its artist, ideas I myself would also like to support, but with better critical thinking than we tend to do. I can already see the two kinds of supposedly better critique:

  1. “If this man weren’t such overrated Catholic cishet garbage with a penchant for purple prose, I wouldn’t be wishing for humanity to go to hell right now.”

  2. “This man inspired these wonderful new brands of surreal horror and comedy, though of course, that’s we the audience’s work. That author was just a bigoted asshole. Good thing we can make him roll in his grave with our fixing of his works just like he did to his own dead authors with his perversions of their works.”

While I am highly likely to surrender my mostly malformed children to the above truly better people, especially in comparison to the more professed manchildren, I would very much understand being supposed that I would do so out of sadism against anyone and everyone rather than some speck of benevolence, as I am reminded of forces we call the foster care system and child protection services, which I’ve seen more horrifying depictions of in my consumption of media so far. And I could plead for recognition of what little benevolence I have, which I dearly would, but with how often we act like mobsters (pun intended), I would still have to humiliate myself along with my children. With that said, I suppose it would be better if I keep on striving to humbly plead for not just my and my children’s benevolence but also our fellow fools’ benevolence, and so, here is yet another attempt:

I, the author, may be dead, but humanity never will be. If you can and would treat an animal, a plant, an inanimate object more humanely than an actual human being, then would you not do the same or even more to a mess of ideas, a scrap of paper, a discharge of electrons? Especially since it provided you with virtue you hoped for but I did not intend? And can the author not be from the audience? How else would the audience be able to have such power over the text, then? And if you did not give yourselves that virtue, then what is the true source of that virtue? How can there be virtue to be gained and shared if there is no humanity powering the text?

Now, I could try to go back to the academia about this, but I’m sure you fellow manchildren of mine have had more than enough of that pompous farce, so please enjoy this (not really new) change of posturing. And of course, you are also welcome to turn this work to your favor, though for the sake of that useless thing called the ego, which we all have, please give some sort of credit to me at least.

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