Magic Mountain Count: Page 300

I'm struggling with The Magic Mountain. These last 100 pages have been something of a chore and I haven't maintained my reading schedule - weeks have gone by with barely 10 to 15 pages being read. I think it's time for, um, "hard decisions", or, at the very least, a change.

Thomas Mann's prose is a paradoxical combination of preciseness and verbosity. He can meander through a series of details, seemingly unnecessary as they are being read, which eventually piece together a comprehensive picture. I've noticed this particularly in his insightful, humorous and, occasionally, compassionate, descriptions of human behaviour, and in the descriptions of the ravages of disease on the human body. But there is much detail to wade through and I'm beginning to find the slow pace a little too slow. And the ramblings a little too rambly; being a philosophical novel, there are great swaths of character dialogue devoted to esoteric thinkings (Herr Settembrini especially - "Illness is a depravity" - is testing my patience, although, in fairness, he is also testing the patience of the novel's protagonist, Hans Castorp). Of course, The Brothers Karamazov also contained great rambly swaths, and I was able to manage those (albeit, at times, with great difficulty). But I was more tolerant of Karamazov (and Dostoyevsky). So why Karamazov and not Magic Mountain? There are a few possible reasons for this:

1) Karamazov and I have a long history; I bought the novel 12 years ago and had, at various times during those 12 years, attempted to read it - I certainly had strong motivation to finish it

2) Perhaps I connect intimately on some level with Dostoyevsky, something about him and/or his world view speaks to me

3) Starting a difficult novel so soon after finishing a difficult novel - especially one so significant to me - might have been asking too much of my brain capacity, and my endurance. I may have, inadvertently, cast Magic Mountain into the role of "rebound novel".

However, I do feel some spark with Magic Mountain; it has, at times, spoken to me - there is definitely potential. But I don't want to push things. I don't want the relationship to go sour because we got too serious too soon. So, I've decided Magic Mountain and I need more time and space, as novel and reader, to find our connection. I think we need to be just friends for awhile (NO benefits). We'll still be seeing each other, from time to time, but I'm not going to force things - I'll read it when I feel like reading it.

And, for anyone tempted to read The Magic Mountain, here is a philosophical-type excerpt to give you some idea what of to expect:

"What was life, really? It was warmth, the warmth produced by instability attempting to preserve form, a fever of matter that accompanies the ceaseless dissolution and renewal of protein molecules, themselves transient in their complex and intricate construction. It was the existence of what, in actuality, has no inherent ability to exist, but only balances with sweet, painful precariousness on one point of existence in the midst of this feverish, interwoven process of decay and repair." (pg 271)

I must now retire from this blog entry so I can attend to my very own "process of decay and repair".

Café du Nuit

(English translation: The Night Café)

Last night I watched the Dr Who episode titled "Vincent and the Doctor", in which the Doctor visits Dutch post-impressionist painter, Vincent Van Gogh, shortly before Vincent committed suicide, and when he was at his most artistically prolific. It was an excellent (and emotional) episode. The writer of the episode (Richard Curtis) and the actor playing Vincent (Tony Curran) didn't hold back in showing the effects of mental illness on Vincent; his extreme visions of the universe, both terrifying and exultant. In terms of exploring both the pain and joy of being human, I would put the episode on a par with "Father's Day", from season 1 of the new Dr Who. Both episodes made me cry, or, at the very least, get a little weepy.

On one of the walls in my flat, I have a slightly tattered print of a Van Gogh painting, Café du Nuit (which I acquired from a person who was going to throw it away!!!):



I've never studied art or art history, so, when I'm looking at works of art, I'm usually interpreting a little blind. What I mean is, that I don't always know the context in which the painting/sculpture/photograph was created. My initial interpretations may be nowhere near what the artist had in mind. (Although, I would argue that wild interpretations are part of the fun of art, as well as being something artists need to accept if they want to open their art to others).

So, in regards to Café du Nuit, I thought it was about isolation, being an outsider. When I look at the painting I feel left out; I'm gazing at the warm, orangy-glowing cafe from the cold street but I'm not allowed inside, where "acceptable" people congregate (because I'm not acceptable).
However, now that I've found out some background information about the painting, I think I'm going to have to re-interpret my interpretation.

The painting is actually one of a series of paintings, set both outside and inside the night cafe (actually cafés, there were quite a few). The night cafés, where Van Gogh sometimes stayed when he was living in Arles (in France), were places where "night-prowlers" could go if they couldn't find other lodgings (eg if they were short of cash or too "under the weather" - drunk - to be taken into more respectable establishments). Here's one of the paintings set inside one of the night café where Van Gogh stayed:

The inside of the café actually looks pretty warm and inviting, even cosy, despite being a "low-life" establishment, and despite Van Gogh wanting his painting to give the impression of the café as being a place where "one can ruin oneself, go mad, or commit a crime". I suspect it would be okay for weird loner types (such as myself) to have a drink there, and possibly, go mad - but a cosy kind of mad.
I think my original interpretation of Café du Nuit is a reflection of my own anxieties about going into places where there are gatherings of peoples, who I haven't established strong comfort levels with, which is pretty much the entire planet, with the exception of about 10 people.


[NB: The painting that I have on my wall has been given the title "Café du Nuit" by whoever made the print, hence this is why I have referred to it as such. In Wikipedia, this same painting is referred to as "Café Terrace at Night", which is actually a more accurate description. Also, in Wikipedia, "Café du Nuit", is the name given to the painting of the inside of one of the cafés (ie the second picture I posted). But when I googled "Café du Nuit", both paintings came up. So, in conclusion, I have no idea what the correct title is, of either painting.]

The Blob

The blob lies dormant. It is encased in a thick film of cotton and polyester and inertia. Its stillness is a cunning strategy. The blob knows that to move, or even, God forbid, to get up, is tantamount to living; a fate too horrible to contemplate.

A Billion Dollars is Barely Enough!!!

I'm thinking of writing an open letter to Australian Mining Bosses. (Not really). But if I did, below are 2 versions of my letter:


Long Version:

Dear Mining Bosses,

So, when you made your first BILLION dollars, did
you not think: "Wow, that's alot of money. Surely that's enough money to - feed/clothe/house/educate/entertain/bribe etc - me and my family and my extended family and all my friends and their families and their extended families etc..." (I think you get my point). Apparently, it would seem, you did not think these thoughts. Apparently, having enough money to live VERY comfortably, and then some, was/is not enough. So why is it not enough. Maybe there's competition between you: "his equity is bigger than my equity, I feel so inadequate". Or is there a philosophical issue? Is this about happiness? Do you equate happiness with wealth? If so, surely you'd be incredibly happy by now? So why are you not happy? Is the black hole of your unhappiness an eternal, unfillable quarry (pun intended) that will never be sated by any amount of material wealth? Whatever the problem, get over it. Read some philosophy, go out and talk to people - real people (not other rich people) - go for a walkabout in the desert (but be careful not to fall into an open cut mine and injure yourselves), pull your heads out of your - not insubstantial - bottoms. Get some perspective. I've heard it said that giving to others can bring fulfilment - do that.

Love, Nicole

Short Version:

Dear Greedy Fuckers,

Give the rest of us some money, you selfish,
arrogant poop-heads.

Bite me, Nicole

THIS IS NOT A BLOG POST

This is a reminder that Effulgent13 is currently not posting on Wednesdays (due to the inane predictability of posting on the same day of the week - see here for explanation). My apologies to those who came here expecting the usual Wednesday blog post.

I repeat: "This is NOT a blog post".