Following my post on the twittification of America, the estimable Brad Green kindly directed me to a “literary journal” composed entirely of tweets. There are lots. I read a few. Some are mildly amusing;
lionelritchieCD: Wait! She touched me! Oh… she was reaching for Kenny Rogers. Fuck.
some are mildly interesting;
a_gravedigger: went to hardware store to buy new gloves, clerk said-what are these for, i said, you don’t wanna know son.
some are clever-for-the-sake-of-clever:
A_BULLY: i’m a much bigger fan of the punch to the stomach than i am of the punch to the thigh
But none flirt even remotely with being “perfect little statements into gems of intent, meaning, clarity.” (My definition of a worthwhile aphorism.) Not that they’re trying to to be that. Not sure what they are trying to be. Probably they’re on to something. They just don’t know what.
Tweets have a long way to go. Not saying they won’t get there. They might. Web-lit is evolving. I’ve got great hopes for it. Humble beginnings are required. twitter666 has them in spades.
Whatever web-lit evolves into, these tweets will be as cave paintings to, say, Paradise Lost or Pale Fire or Proust. Or something entirely less wordy. Like waka or the prosings of the great master himself.
In any case, I’ve emailed the man evidently behind twitter666, Sam Pink, inviting him to comment. Let’s hope he puts in an appearance.