I heard myself talking today. I was discussing the gratuitous sex in the early Game of Thrones series.
Being one or its original converts, I have recently felt a little aggrieved that the wagon that I was travelling on, with but a few, has now become a bandwagon. Every Wight Walker in the Seven Kingdoms is now a Game of Thrones fan.
Well, here is one man of the north who says,
“Tis mine and my like’s. The final season is coming!”
So back to a conversation that I was having about the ridiculous nature of modern day culture that confuses television with actual culture. The conversation started with an outpouring of sadness for a television presenter who just happened to crash into a car with a three year old girl inside. The line of the narrative went, “I think the public really feel sorry for him.”
My line was different.
Anyway, back to Game of Thrones which is not television but a documentary of immense importance. I was bemoaning the fact that the documentary makers had included earlier scenes of such a robust sexual nature that they existed merely as titbits for an audience incapable of following an epic narrative; fisting has no place in fact-based fiction.
And then I got to thinking about Molly Bloom and her monologue at the end of Joyce’s Ulysses (his little blue book).
“…when hes like that he cant keep a thing back I know every turn in him ill tighten my bottom well and let out a few smutty words smellrump or lick my shit…”
This was high art in my day and I loved it.
The years have censored me.