In recent entries this blog has featured the writing of James Joyce. However, I think it should also include some writing from “Naked Lunch” by William Burroughs, which is the book I first read using the, now famous, random passage method (again, see The Incomprehensibles). Of course, the Bible was really my first random read and this blog does already feature a Bible quote (see Bible Effulgent), but I would put reading religious texts into a different realm to other reading. I would also put reading science texts into a different realm to other reading - but not in the same realm as religious texts. They are completely different! I find them both interesting, though. The “Dictionary of Science” sits right next to the “Good News Bible” on my bookshelf – on the other side is the “Dictionary of Spanish”: Buenos Dias! But I think they should be studied separately (as should Spanish). And “Intelligent Design” is not Science, so keep it away from the bunsen burner, lest it combust. And, while it’s certainly an interesting metaphysical idea, I don’t know if Intelligent Design is even accepted as theology by mainstream religions. Maybe I’ll have to go back to church and find out – except I might not be allowed back in. I’ll have to wear a disguise. I think I’ll wear my Pope costume.
I seem to have digressed from my original purpose. From James Joyce to Intelligent Design in one rambling paragraph; this blog entry deserves a place in “Naked Lunch”. And I'm sure it would offend some people. But it’s probably too coherent. Something I admire in William Burroughs writing is his ability to write long and unwieldy sentences, such that by the time the reader gets to the end of the sentence they’ve forgotten what happened at the beginning (but worse than me). Here is an example:
“The scream shot out of his flesh through empty locker rooms and barracks, musty resort hotels, and spectral, coughing corridors of T.B. sanitariums, the muttering, hawking, grey dishwater smell of flophouses and Old Men’s Homes, great, dusty custom sheds and warehouses, through broken porticoes and smeared arabesques, iron urinals worn paper thin by the urine of a million fairies, deserted weed-grown privies with a musty smell of shit turning back to the soil, erect wooden phallus on the grave of dying peoples plaintive as leaves in the wind, across the great brown river where whole trees float with green snakes in the branches and sad-eyed lemurs watch the shore out over a vast plain.” (pgs 42-43)
He had some wild ideas and imagery (especially some unusual sexual imagery…or what appears to be sexual imagery), some of which came from frying his brain with psychoactive drugs. I’m not sure if this counts as cheating – I don’t think authors are subject to drug testing – they may even be encouraged to give their brains a little chemical frying every now and then. Maybe it’s a reasonable way to access hidden depths of creativity in the human brain. I’m drinking coffee while I write this, which is helping me access the hidden depths of 'crapping on' in my brain. I guess it depends on the individual and what’s important to them. I’m comforted to know that after drinking this coffee I’ll still be able to tie my shoelaces; something I might not be able to do after too much LSD (or whatever William Burroughs was taking, which I think was anything available). However, I do like wearing boots and hence, no shoelaces; although, it can be tricky getting my foot inside the boot before the boot tips over and crumples under my weight.
I’ll end this blog entry with some more “Naked Lunch” – I’ve chosen a passage featuring the infamous Mugwumps:
"Mugwumps have no liver and nourish themselves exclusively on sweets. Thin, purple-blue lips cover a razor-sharp beak of black bone with which they frequently tear each other to shreds in fights over clients. These creatures secrete an addicting fluid from their erect..." (pg 46)
...uh...well...that's about all that can be said about the Mugwumps, otherwise this blog will need to put up an "adult content" warning.
Monday 29 December 2008
Wednesday 24 December 2008
A Christmas Carol
It’s Christmas Eve. I won’t be attending midnight mass, which isn’t that surprising, since I never attend midnight mass. Tomorrow, being December 25th, is one of the few calendar days which annoy me. Another is my birthday…just kidding, I love my birthday; a whole day devoted to me. Yeah! And I find Good Friday a strange day; not quite annoying, though. I once worked on a Good Friday and the whole day I had a creepy feeling, like I shouldn’t have been there…probably being the only person in the building didn’t help. And being virtually the only car on the road driving to and from work.
So I thought I would clarify my anti-Christmas sentiments. I’ve made a “Reasons Christmas annoys me” list:
So I thought I would clarify my anti-Christmas sentiments. I’ve made a “Reasons Christmas annoys me” list:
- Forced consumerism
- Buying presents for people you only see at Christmas
- Religious holiday - when some of us aren't religious, or are lapsed Christians, or aren't even Christian (lapsed or otherwise)
- Expectation of goodwill from/to others; should we only expect this at Christmas?
- Families having to get together when maybe they shouldn't
- Increased domestic violence
- Increased road toll
- Meaningless rituals
- Shutting down and cleaning the laboratory when it's only going to be closed for a week and a half...
I think Christmas works better for adults who have children. They become infected by their children’s excitement – hmmm, “infected”. If I’d had children, though, I would have tried to keep them away from the Christmas onslaught. But it would have been difficult. And I don’t know how happy I’d be for my children (who I would have named Carbon and Fluorine, after my favourite periodic table elements) to be known as the weird kids who don’t celebrate Christmas. Perhaps it’s easier to just fit in, especially in childhood – even if it’s wrong.
For the record, I think Christmas rituals should include a day of complete silence, followed, at midnight, by loud screaming, preferably outside, and under a full moon. And if it’s a warm night, the screaming should be performed naked, or at least without shoes – although this may only be realistic for those in the southern hemisphere, or who live near the equator.
Sunday 21 December 2008
My Brother's House
A few weeks ago I visited my oldest brother at his house (along with my mother and other brother). The house was having their annual Christmas party. My brother has brain damage, which he’s had since birth. He is unable to speak, although he can make a lot of noise, and he has a number of health issues stemming from his brain damage. He’ll never be able to live independently. He currently lives in special accommodation, which is a large suburban house with 4 other special needs people and their carers.
The Christmas party is always a bracing encounter. The families of all the housemates are invited and there is a lot of food and noise. Eating with my brother can be an adventure; it’s advisable not to wear your best clothes and to leave your etiquette expectations at the door. This year the party was bigger than usual, as people from nearbye special needs houses came along. Seeing so many people who live everyday with seemingly insurmountable physical and intellectual disabilities makes you realise how your own life is relatively easy.
At times I still find it challenging seeing my brother. I don’t know what’s going on in his mind and I don’t know how to communicate with him. The people who look after him (the carers) are amazing. They spend a lot of time with my brother, they accept him (and the other housemates) as they are and try to make their lives the best that they can be.
The Christmas party is always a bracing encounter. The families of all the housemates are invited and there is a lot of food and noise. Eating with my brother can be an adventure; it’s advisable not to wear your best clothes and to leave your etiquette expectations at the door. This year the party was bigger than usual, as people from nearbye special needs houses came along. Seeing so many people who live everyday with seemingly insurmountable physical and intellectual disabilities makes you realise how your own life is relatively easy.
At times I still find it challenging seeing my brother. I don’t know what’s going on in his mind and I don’t know how to communicate with him. The people who look after him (the carers) are amazing. They spend a lot of time with my brother, they accept him (and the other housemates) as they are and try to make their lives the best that they can be.
Friday 19 December 2008
6 Weekly Rental Movies...
...for $10. Bargain! That's $1.66666666 etc per film. I love my local Video Ezy. But not just for its excellent deals, it also has a very good selection of films. I've even noticed a few films on the shelves which screened at recent Melbourne film festivals but which didn't get a local cinema release. The list of films I want to see is usually pretty long and I tend to prefer independent non-Hollywood films, which don't screen at very many cinemas or for very long. So I don't always get to see them when they're showing. In fact, most films I want to see are screened at Cinema Nova in Carlton, which is not near where I live. I have considered moving to this part of town just to be closer to the cinema - but then I would be further away from where I work (or did work, but I may go back to work there soon).
Cinema Nova is great, though. It has different sized cinemas to allow for the varying attendance of the films - including really small cinemas. A few months ago I was there to see a very arthouse film from Sweden called "You, the living" (which was excellent - but not for everyone) and I think I was in the smallest of the cinemas. There were just 5 of us watching; it was quite cozy.
But getting back to Video Ezy, which is also cozy; and the young people who attend the store are lovely - they're always patient with me when I ask them obscure questions. I was there yesterday and I did the 6 movies for $10 deal, which will take me through to Christmas. Here are the films I hired (and I've listed them in the order I've chosen to view them, using principles of Feng Shui, to maximise the overall impact of the films):
An Inconvenient Truth. I'm a bit behind the eight-ball (or melting glacier) in watching this documentary. I watched it last night and during the credits it said that I should tell people I know to watch it. So WATCH IT. Global warming is not a myth. And I think "Climate Change" is too tame, we should be calling it "Climate Chaos". But I guess the problem will be solved when temperatures and CO2 levels reach critical levels and there is a mass extinction of life on earth (including humans).
Zodiac.
Sherry Baby. Featuring the luminous Maggie Gyllenhaal - who I love in a not-quite-lesbian way.
Walking on Water. Featuring the luminous Vince Colosimo - who I love in a completely heterosexual way.
Bubble. Apparently this is "another Steven Soderbergh experience", or so it says on the cover.
Nightwatch.
Cinema Nova is great, though. It has different sized cinemas to allow for the varying attendance of the films - including really small cinemas. A few months ago I was there to see a very arthouse film from Sweden called "You, the living" (which was excellent - but not for everyone) and I think I was in the smallest of the cinemas. There were just 5 of us watching; it was quite cozy.
But getting back to Video Ezy, which is also cozy; and the young people who attend the store are lovely - they're always patient with me when I ask them obscure questions. I was there yesterday and I did the 6 movies for $10 deal, which will take me through to Christmas. Here are the films I hired (and I've listed them in the order I've chosen to view them, using principles of Feng Shui, to maximise the overall impact of the films):
An Inconvenient Truth. I'm a bit behind the eight-ball (or melting glacier) in watching this documentary. I watched it last night and during the credits it said that I should tell people I know to watch it. So WATCH IT. Global warming is not a myth. And I think "Climate Change" is too tame, we should be calling it "Climate Chaos". But I guess the problem will be solved when temperatures and CO2 levels reach critical levels and there is a mass extinction of life on earth (including humans).
Zodiac.
Sherry Baby. Featuring the luminous Maggie Gyllenhaal - who I love in a not-quite-lesbian way.
Walking on Water. Featuring the luminous Vince Colosimo - who I love in a completely heterosexual way.
Bubble. Apparently this is "another Steven Soderbergh experience", or so it says on the cover.
Nightwatch.
Wednesday 17 December 2008
Lying about Sex
That got your attention.
Many, many, many, many, many years ago there was a man I quite liked (actually, there have been many men that I quite liked, but that’s not important now). The man – let’s call him ‘liar, liar, pants on fire’ or LLPOF for short – and I went out on 2 dates. We did not have sex. There was some smooching. There was some groping: all above the waist. Lower garments remained in place and intact. It’s possible, more than likely, we would have engaged in the wild-thing had we continued seeing each other. But he ended it. Hence the not having of the sex.
About a year later I was at a party talking to a friend of LLPOF. The friend informed me that he knew LLPOF and I had had sex. Interesting. I didn’t know what the appropriate response was in this situation. Obviously I could have refuted the claim, set the record straight. I didn’t. I didn’t say anything; I was somewhat dumbstruck. A part of me thought: “I had been intending to have sex with him, I’d thought about it – maybe that counts?”. But there was something else. Without going into detail, I’d gotten the impression that LLPOF had some sexual dysfunction, and that, perhaps, this may have been a contributing factor to the non-sex that occurred between us. I think this was the main reason I kept quiet. I assumed that LLPOF wouldn't want people to know about his problem penis – and people might have found out if I’d gone into further details with his friend about my encounters with LLPOF.
However, none of this excuses LLPOF. He still lied, possibly boasted, to his friend about imagined sexual activity, as some men do (some women do to but it’s not in the same league). I guess it’s the human male equivalent of locking horns – trying to show superior virility.
I wasn’t angry with LLPOF though; in the end it didn’t bother me if people believed we’d had sex. I’ve never spoken to him about it (I haven’t seen him in a long time). I think my main reaction was surprise, slight shock, and then intrigue. He wasn’t an alpha male, he was kind of nerdy and quiet – not the type you’d imagine leading the “I’ve had more sex than you” boys-only conversation. I wondered if he’d lied by omission. Rather than saying outright “Nicole and I, we did it”, he may have said: “Nicole and I, we went out a couple of times”, then his friend would have asked: “Did anything happen?” (or the boy-talk equivalent of this), to which LLPOF would have replied: “A gentleman never tells”, accompanied by appropriate eye movements. Seriously, it’s the kind of thing this guy would have said – this is why I thought he was so cute.
I’m going to end this blog entry with some sage advice to all the confused young men out there, wandering in the wilderness of love – don’t listen to the crap other men tell you when you’re in a big, drunken group. And don’t spend so much time on the internet reading my blog, go and meet some women your own age.
Many, many, many, many, many years ago there was a man I quite liked (actually, there have been many men that I quite liked, but that’s not important now). The man – let’s call him ‘liar, liar, pants on fire’ or LLPOF for short – and I went out on 2 dates. We did not have sex. There was some smooching. There was some groping: all above the waist. Lower garments remained in place and intact. It’s possible, more than likely, we would have engaged in the wild-thing had we continued seeing each other. But he ended it. Hence the not having of the sex.
About a year later I was at a party talking to a friend of LLPOF. The friend informed me that he knew LLPOF and I had had sex. Interesting. I didn’t know what the appropriate response was in this situation. Obviously I could have refuted the claim, set the record straight. I didn’t. I didn’t say anything; I was somewhat dumbstruck. A part of me thought: “I had been intending to have sex with him, I’d thought about it – maybe that counts?”. But there was something else. Without going into detail, I’d gotten the impression that LLPOF had some sexual dysfunction, and that, perhaps, this may have been a contributing factor to the non-sex that occurred between us. I think this was the main reason I kept quiet. I assumed that LLPOF wouldn't want people to know about his problem penis – and people might have found out if I’d gone into further details with his friend about my encounters with LLPOF.
However, none of this excuses LLPOF. He still lied, possibly boasted, to his friend about imagined sexual activity, as some men do (some women do to but it’s not in the same league). I guess it’s the human male equivalent of locking horns – trying to show superior virility.
I wasn’t angry with LLPOF though; in the end it didn’t bother me if people believed we’d had sex. I’ve never spoken to him about it (I haven’t seen him in a long time). I think my main reaction was surprise, slight shock, and then intrigue. He wasn’t an alpha male, he was kind of nerdy and quiet – not the type you’d imagine leading the “I’ve had more sex than you” boys-only conversation. I wondered if he’d lied by omission. Rather than saying outright “Nicole and I, we did it”, he may have said: “Nicole and I, we went out a couple of times”, then his friend would have asked: “Did anything happen?” (or the boy-talk equivalent of this), to which LLPOF would have replied: “A gentleman never tells”, accompanied by appropriate eye movements. Seriously, it’s the kind of thing this guy would have said – this is why I thought he was so cute.
I’m going to end this blog entry with some sage advice to all the confused young men out there, wandering in the wilderness of love – don’t listen to the crap other men tell you when you’re in a big, drunken group. And don’t spend so much time on the internet reading my blog, go and meet some women your own age.
Sunday 14 December 2008
James Joyce instead of the Bible
I’m now really enjoying “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” by James Joyce (see blog entry The Incomprehensibles for explanation). I’m reading it using the highly recommended random-passage-at-a-time technique. And I’ve realized that this method is very similar to the method used for reading the bible, which I was taught way back in Catholic Land (which is east of Xanadu). But I prefer James Joyce. Is that blasphemy? Oh well, I’m pretty sure I’m already going straight to hell when I leave this mortal coil. Unless I can't leave. Maybe I'm immortal. Then what happens? What if I'm trapped here. On Earth. With Mankind. For Eternity. Hell.
Here’s what James Joyce has to say about eternity (in hell):
“…What must it be, then, to bear the manifold tortures of hell for ever?… You have often seen the sand on the seashore. How fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny little grains go to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play. Now imagine a mountain of that sand, a million miles high, reaching from the earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending to remotest space, and a million miles in thickness; and imagine such an enormous mass of countless particles of sand multiplied as often as there are leaves in the forest, drops of water in the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on animals, atoms in the vast expanse of the air: and imagine that at the end of every million years a little bird came to that mountain and carried away in its beak a tiny grain of that sand. How many millions upon millions of centuries would pass before that bird had carried away even a square foot of that mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had carried away all? Yet at the end of that immense stretch of time not even one instant of eternity could be said to have ended.” (pgs. 140-141)
That's one freakishly obsessive-compulsive bird carrying away all those grains of sand.
James Joyce really loves the word 'million'.
Here’s what James Joyce has to say about eternity (in hell):
“…What must it be, then, to bear the manifold tortures of hell for ever?… You have often seen the sand on the seashore. How fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny little grains go to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play. Now imagine a mountain of that sand, a million miles high, reaching from the earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending to remotest space, and a million miles in thickness; and imagine such an enormous mass of countless particles of sand multiplied as often as there are leaves in the forest, drops of water in the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on animals, atoms in the vast expanse of the air: and imagine that at the end of every million years a little bird came to that mountain and carried away in its beak a tiny grain of that sand. How many millions upon millions of centuries would pass before that bird had carried away even a square foot of that mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had carried away all? Yet at the end of that immense stretch of time not even one instant of eternity could be said to have ended.” (pgs. 140-141)
That's one freakishly obsessive-compulsive bird carrying away all those grains of sand.
James Joyce really loves the word 'million'.
Thursday 11 December 2008
The Man from the Marsh
He stumbles upon another maiden and shows her his charm. The enticing, shiny colours mesmerize her foolish heart. She is enchanted. And this is what his heart desires; to watch her eyes glaze with hypnotic admiration. And to know his power. And nothing more.
Tuesday 9 December 2008
Things I've found in Library Books
- Library dockets showing the persons name and the books they'd borrowed from the library (someone less sane than myself might do something weird with such information)
- An empty seed packet
- Receipts
- Dead insects
- Blood (actually my blood, it was a tough book)
- Photos
- Unidentified greenish-brown lumps stuck to the page that I don't want to think on for too long
- A love letter...not really, but wouldn't that have been awesome!
Saturday 6 December 2008
The Incomprehensibles
I would have trouble making a list of my favourite books. I don’t think I’ve read enough books, or enough books that I really like. Years have gone by when I hardly read any fiction - everything on the bookshelves seemed shite to me. I may have been looking at the wrong bookshelves. And, in fairness to books, years have gone by when I had an all-consuming addiction to playstation and hardly did anything else. But something I have acquired over the years is a list of books I’ve attempted to read but couldn’t understand. The Incomprehensibles. Here is the list in chronological order of reading and with explanatory notes:
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. My first ever incomprehensible. With it’s wacky ‘nadsat’ speech, I suspect it would make many people’s lists. It’s possible I would be able to read it now; I’ve seen the film, which would help with the comprehending. But I don’t know if I want to read it. It’s not very nice. Apparently, drinking milk and listening to Beethoven can turn you into a violent, psychotic rapist. That’s right isn’t it?
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. You bastard. You seduced me with your promise of murder, passion, family rivalry and religion. Your cover mesmerized me with its haunting picture of an anguished sinner cowering before a priest – all dark and moody. And while I was initially daunted by your large number of pages (approximately 900) – and there were other books by your author, thinner books - it was for you that I’d come to the bookstore. I’d gotten it into my head that I had to read you. I’m not entirely sure why. I’d seen references to you in other books, it seemed like you were important, somehow.
So I bought you and took you home. I tried to make it work, tried to love you, but you were very difficult, very demanding. And I never really understood you. At one point I wondered if maybe Russian translated into English becomes incomprehensible. So I read “Anna Karenina” by Leo Tolstoy. No problem. With the exception of a few of boring chapters on collective farming, it was completely readable.
It’s been 10 years since the brothers came into my life. Occasionally I try reading it again. I don’t get very far. It seems like there are too many words describing too many things and my brain can’t follow. Perhaps I need a new brain.
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. I may not have given this one a proper chance. The sentences mostly made sense but my mind kept drifting away. It seemed like it was going to be hard work. I decided that since I’d seen “Apocalypse Now” and the documentary about the making of the film, I already knew all I needed to know about the “Heart of Darkness”. Plus, I couldn’t find ‘the horror, the horror’ or ‘terminate with extreme prejudice’ – maybe they’re not in the book.
Naked Lunch by William S Burroughs. I think this book is meant to be read while under the influence of mind-altering drugs (I believe it was written under the influence of mind-altering drugs). I wasn’t prepared to do this; I don’t want to mess with the delicate chemical balance of my brain. So I went in cold. It didn’t work. I gave up. However, over the years, I’ve found myself picking it up (say when I’m waiting for rice to cook), flicking to a random page and reading for a short period of time. If the page that I’m on isn’t making sense I flick to another page, and so on, until I find a page that makes sense. It seems to be working. I’m slowly reading “Naked Lunch” sober, but in a non-linear fashion. I may eventually have to remove it from the incomprehensibles list.
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner. I’d heard that William Faulkner wrote southern gothic stories. I was really excited; it sounded like my kind of story. And maybe it is, but I couldn’t tell from this particular novel – there were sensible words, but they seemed to be all turned around and in the wrong order for the making of the sense.
Paradise Lost by John Milton. I was trying to get me some literary culture. Fuck that. Read the summary in wikipedia.
Honourable Mentions:
My Honours Thesis: “Flash vacuum pyrolysis of oxindoles substituted at N1 and at C3”. While it is a fascinating tale of scientific intrigue and has some interesting speculative chemistry, it loses some impact in its style. It gets bogged down in technical detail; too many facts and figures. There is very little nuance or sub-text. I believe it would have benefited from a more surreal approach. I’m thinking about re-writing it in the style of magical realism.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce. Joycey (as he was known at the pub) chose a somewhat pretentious title for his book. His prose is also somewhat pretentious. It is dense and lyrical and surreal. It is packed full of vivid imagery and catholic guilt. There are some brilliant passages about eternity and hell and sin – and, Joycey’s favourite, eternity in hell (because of sin).
I haven’t completely given up on it. I’m thinking I might give it the ‘Naked Lunch’ treatment of random reading. Flicking through the book I came upon this endearingly catholic exchange:
“I…committed sins of impurity, father.
The priest did not turn his head.
- With yourself, my child?
- And…with others.
- With women, my child?
- Yes, father.
- Were they married women, my child?” (pg. 154)
Why is it important to know if the women were married? I guess as much detail as possible in the confessional makes for a more informed priest (especially on matters of impurity). Then there’s this comforting passage (spoken by a priest):
“…Consider then what must be the foulness in the air of hell. Imagine some foul and putrid corpse that has lain rotting and decomposing in the grave, a jellylike mass of liquid corruption. Imagine such a corpse a prey to flames, devoured by the fire of burning brimstone and giving off dense choking fumes of nauseous loathsome decomposition. And then imagine this sickening stench, multiplied a millionfold and a millionfold again from the millions upon millions of fetid carcasses massed together in the reeking darkness, a huge and rotting human fungus. Imagine all this, and you will have some idea of the horror of the stench of hell.” (pgs. 127-128)
This is why I gave up catholicism. Also, I couldn't cope with all the guilt. Or the praying. Or sitting on hard wooden benches in cold churches listening to cranky clergy. Jesus! (...Mary and Joseph).
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. My first ever incomprehensible. With it’s wacky ‘nadsat’ speech, I suspect it would make many people’s lists. It’s possible I would be able to read it now; I’ve seen the film, which would help with the comprehending. But I don’t know if I want to read it. It’s not very nice. Apparently, drinking milk and listening to Beethoven can turn you into a violent, psychotic rapist. That’s right isn’t it?
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. You bastard. You seduced me with your promise of murder, passion, family rivalry and religion. Your cover mesmerized me with its haunting picture of an anguished sinner cowering before a priest – all dark and moody. And while I was initially daunted by your large number of pages (approximately 900) – and there were other books by your author, thinner books - it was for you that I’d come to the bookstore. I’d gotten it into my head that I had to read you. I’m not entirely sure why. I’d seen references to you in other books, it seemed like you were important, somehow.
So I bought you and took you home. I tried to make it work, tried to love you, but you were very difficult, very demanding. And I never really understood you. At one point I wondered if maybe Russian translated into English becomes incomprehensible. So I read “Anna Karenina” by Leo Tolstoy. No problem. With the exception of a few of boring chapters on collective farming, it was completely readable.
It’s been 10 years since the brothers came into my life. Occasionally I try reading it again. I don’t get very far. It seems like there are too many words describing too many things and my brain can’t follow. Perhaps I need a new brain.
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. I may not have given this one a proper chance. The sentences mostly made sense but my mind kept drifting away. It seemed like it was going to be hard work. I decided that since I’d seen “Apocalypse Now” and the documentary about the making of the film, I already knew all I needed to know about the “Heart of Darkness”. Plus, I couldn’t find ‘the horror, the horror’ or ‘terminate with extreme prejudice’ – maybe they’re not in the book.
Naked Lunch by William S Burroughs. I think this book is meant to be read while under the influence of mind-altering drugs (I believe it was written under the influence of mind-altering drugs). I wasn’t prepared to do this; I don’t want to mess with the delicate chemical balance of my brain. So I went in cold. It didn’t work. I gave up. However, over the years, I’ve found myself picking it up (say when I’m waiting for rice to cook), flicking to a random page and reading for a short period of time. If the page that I’m on isn’t making sense I flick to another page, and so on, until I find a page that makes sense. It seems to be working. I’m slowly reading “Naked Lunch” sober, but in a non-linear fashion. I may eventually have to remove it from the incomprehensibles list.
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner. I’d heard that William Faulkner wrote southern gothic stories. I was really excited; it sounded like my kind of story. And maybe it is, but I couldn’t tell from this particular novel – there were sensible words, but they seemed to be all turned around and in the wrong order for the making of the sense.
Paradise Lost by John Milton. I was trying to get me some literary culture. Fuck that. Read the summary in wikipedia.
Honourable Mentions:
My Honours Thesis: “Flash vacuum pyrolysis of oxindoles substituted at N1 and at C3”. While it is a fascinating tale of scientific intrigue and has some interesting speculative chemistry, it loses some impact in its style. It gets bogged down in technical detail; too many facts and figures. There is very little nuance or sub-text. I believe it would have benefited from a more surreal approach. I’m thinking about re-writing it in the style of magical realism.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce. Joycey (as he was known at the pub) chose a somewhat pretentious title for his book. His prose is also somewhat pretentious. It is dense and lyrical and surreal. It is packed full of vivid imagery and catholic guilt. There are some brilliant passages about eternity and hell and sin – and, Joycey’s favourite, eternity in hell (because of sin).
I haven’t completely given up on it. I’m thinking I might give it the ‘Naked Lunch’ treatment of random reading. Flicking through the book I came upon this endearingly catholic exchange:
“I…committed sins of impurity, father.
The priest did not turn his head.
- With yourself, my child?
- And…with others.
- With women, my child?
- Yes, father.
- Were they married women, my child?” (pg. 154)
Why is it important to know if the women were married? I guess as much detail as possible in the confessional makes for a more informed priest (especially on matters of impurity). Then there’s this comforting passage (spoken by a priest):
“…Consider then what must be the foulness in the air of hell. Imagine some foul and putrid corpse that has lain rotting and decomposing in the grave, a jellylike mass of liquid corruption. Imagine such a corpse a prey to flames, devoured by the fire of burning brimstone and giving off dense choking fumes of nauseous loathsome decomposition. And then imagine this sickening stench, multiplied a millionfold and a millionfold again from the millions upon millions of fetid carcasses massed together in the reeking darkness, a huge and rotting human fungus. Imagine all this, and you will have some idea of the horror of the stench of hell.” (pgs. 127-128)
This is why I gave up catholicism. Also, I couldn't cope with all the guilt. Or the praying. Or sitting on hard wooden benches in cold churches listening to cranky clergy. Jesus! (...Mary and Joseph).
Tuesday 2 December 2008
Christmas Cards
To anyone who recently received a Christmas card from me – Don’t Panic – I haven’t been overtaken by Christmas loving aliens. I still maintain a fervent anti-Christmas stance. It’s just that I was sent a bunch of Christmas cards painted by people who can’t use their hands (so they paint with their mouths or feet). There was also a sheet of paper with photos of the people, their names and a short biography (mostly they’d become quadriplegics after an accident). It seemed pretty legitimate and a lot of trouble to go to for a scam. So I figured it was genuine.
Which is all well and fine, except that I was left with a pile of evil, but nicely painted, Christmas cards, which made me very uncomfortable. But as I thought about chucking them in the recycle bin I was struck by a brilliant idea – I could send them to people. Crazy.
I haven’t written my true sentiments regarding Christmas on the cards out of respect for those of you with young children (and those of you who retain a child-like love of Christmas) but I think it’s important for people (especially family and friends) to know my true feelings. So here are the words that should have been on the cards: “Christmas Sux! Love, Nicole.”
Which is all well and fine, except that I was left with a pile of evil, but nicely painted, Christmas cards, which made me very uncomfortable. But as I thought about chucking them in the recycle bin I was struck by a brilliant idea – I could send them to people. Crazy.
I haven’t written my true sentiments regarding Christmas on the cards out of respect for those of you with young children (and those of you who retain a child-like love of Christmas) but I think it’s important for people (especially family and friends) to know my true feelings. So here are the words that should have been on the cards: “Christmas Sux! Love, Nicole.”
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