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Artaud’s Year
2020 was a year of isolation, disturbance, impuissance… our year of the plague
About
This is a blog that is not afraid of getting a little preachy about the things that it loves. That means that we don’t hold back a word for the sake of appeasing anyone. After all, from cool nonchalance to rockin’ rebellion, not giving a f*** is the very core of counterculture.
Here’s our type: occasionally, you go to the bar alone and nurse a couple of pints in the company of Nietzsche, Didion, or Artaud. Perhaps you nurse a third while posting a Pulitzer-worthy film criticism in the comments of IMDB reviews. Either way, you won’t sigh, grunt, or huff and puff when someone pulls you into a chat, because now you have us to hand out all of your unwarranted opinions; to mouth off beautiful imbecilities about Henry Miller being the grandfather of the hippie movement, disco being the modern legacy of ancient Dionysian rituals, and that, at the end of “The Wall,” Pink definitely died.
It’s not strange. And if it is, well, we like that here.
On. In. Over and out,
The Cuckoo Review
