They had very definite opinions about everything, and they wouldn’t admit that what they had were opinions. To hear a nuhp talk, he had a direct line to some categorical imperative that spelled everything out in terms that were unflinchingly black and white. Hollyhocks were the best flowers. Alexander Dumas was the greatest novelist. Powder blue was the prettiest color. Melancholy was the most ennobling emotion. Grand Hotel was the finest movie. The best car ever built was the 1956 Chevy Bel Air, but it had to be aqua and white. And there just wasn’t room for discussion: the nuhp made these pronouncements with the force of divine revelation.From George Allen Effinger's classic Sci-Fi story, "The Aliens Who Knew, I Mean, Everything"*
A depressing though occurred to him, soon after he started exploring - much of the time in Fast Forward - these relics of the past. He had read somewhere that by the turn of the century - his century! - there were approximately fifty thousand television stations broadcasting simultaneously. If that figure had been maintained - and it might well have increased - by now millions and millions of hours of TV programming must have gone on the air. So even the most hardened cynic would admit that there were probably at least a billion hours of worthwhile viewing . . . and millions that would pass the highest standards of excellence. How to find these few needles in so gigantic a haystack?This is one of the major problems with our modern culture - people are no more or less creative than in the era that spawned Beethoven, Bach, Brahms, Mozart, Schubert, Schumann, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Tchaikovsky, and all the rest. And now there are far, far more of them with a far, far better understanding of what works musically, and what has failed.
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posted by Saddo at 2:06 PM on March 9, 2009