Here's another book I read in--well, I read this one in fifth grade, actually. Unlike the last few kids' books I've done, however, I haven't read it since. Although I bought it shortly after reading it at school, it disappeared. I can only assume it was Xed.
This book is about Meg Murry, her brother Charles Wallace, and Calvin O'Keefe. The back story is that Mr Murry, their scientist father, has been missing for many years, ever since he started work on 'tesseracts'--wrinkles in time, ways to travel without going the distance--moving twenty spaces instead of one, say, like in a board game. Charles meets a mysterious old woman named Mrs Whatsit who promises to send them to their missing father with a chance to save him.
This book starts out with "It was a dark and stormy night" (3). I'm curious as to whether it was playing off the cliche or it started it. (When did Peanuts comics start getting published?)
There's a semi-important character known as the Happy Medium. Long before the kids (They are all under age 15; Charles Wallace is only five--an extreme example of a wunderkind, though) meet her, Mrs Murry lectures Meg on trying to find a 'happy medium'. Immediately I was like "Oh, maybe it's like Wizard of Oz!" You know, was it a dream or not, all those people were people she knew, and so on... After rereading the book, I've come to the conclusion that there's no way that this was in Meg's head. Why even bring it up, you ask? Shut up is why.
At one point, Mrs Whatsit tips her chair over. "'Are you all right, Mrs Whatsit?' 'If you have some liniment I'll put it on my dignity.' ... 'Do please get up,' Charles said. 'I don't like to see you lying there that way. You're carrying things too far.' 'Have you ever tried to get to your feet with a sprained dignity?'" (19).
Mrs Whatsit has cohorts by the name of Mrs Who (Doctor?) and Mrs Which. Mrs Who communicates mainly in quotes, in fact, I can't really recall a time in which she doesn't. This particular quote is Euripides: "Nothing is hopeless; we must hope for everything."
The Happy Medium, true to her name, has a crystal ball and so on--when asked to look at the earth, she becomes agitated and complains of having to look at unpleasant things. Mrs Which answers--Mrs Which's voice is always an awkward slur, acting extra letters like thhhisss, so I'll strip it down and cut out the extras, yes?: "There will no longer be so many pleasant things to look at if responsible people do not do something about the unpleasant ones."
The planet the climax of the story comes on is on Camazotz, a planet already enveloped by the Ecthroi--even though they won't be called that till A Wind in the Door. The important thing to know is that they are evil, a cancer of the universe--in A Wind in the Door they're described as 'fallen angels' (there are a lot of Christian over and undertones in this series that I somehow missed as a child, even though they're pretty obvious. Like "I was the dumbest kid ever" obvious). The planet name comes from the Mayans, according to Wikipedia it's a "Mayan bat god". Knowing the Mayans, this means that this planet bearing the name is a bad place. And it is. Think 1984 to the absolute extremes--kids play in sync, throw newspapers in sync, people go home at the same time, lights go off at the same time--and if anything is ever put out of order, even if a child mistakenly drops a ball or misses a jump while skipping rope, they are punished to the greatest degrees. Even the mothers look alike.
Charles Wallace is possessed by the Echroi, or the creature that has already been seduced my the ecthroi--a tall man and a giant, disembodied brain. That I didn't remember, and I found it incredibly frightening--something akin to young Gage after he's brought back from the dead in Pet Sematary. Okay, so Charles doesn't cut Herman Munster's Achille's tendon or anything, but the way I picture them isn't dissimilar, especially since they aren't really that far apart in age. Physically, I had the same basic image, and then Gage adopts very strange eyes among other things because he was resurrected from the dead (you just can't expect to be completely unaffected after that sort of thing!); Charles Wallace's pupils shrink to the point of invisibility. (Which is really creepy in its own right!) He also becomes possessed of ITs and the man's greater knowledge, which is really really creepy because I kind of forgot Charles Wallace was so young. I mean, I remembered he was a child prodigy but jeez!
Calvin calls Charles Wallace 'Charlibus'. What?
"'In your language you have a form of poetry called the sonnet... It is a very strict form of poetry, is it not? There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That's a very strict rhythm or meter, yes? ...And each line has to end with a rigid rhyme pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet, is it? ...But within this strict form the poet has complete freedom to say whatever he wants, doesn't he? ...So,' Mrs Whatsit said. 'So what?' 'Oh, do not be stupid, boy!' Mrs Whatsit scolded. You know perfectly well what I am driving at!' 'You mean you're comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it?' 'Yes,' Mrs Whatsit said. 'You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you'" (192).
So, there we go. This book held up all right--I mean, my affection for it wasn't unfounded or forgotten. It didn't do the same to me as before, but I guess that's not surprising--I remembered much of the story. Some parts seemed overwrought, some of the writing seemed strangely CS Lewis-esque (which may just be because I read this for the first time and Narnia for the first time in very close proximity, so it could just be association rather than actual style--also could be because of those Christian overtones, though arguably L'Engle is even more forward than CS Lewis in that department). The book seemed a lot shorter than before, and I found myself hating Meg a lot more. I mean, I kind of liked her. But after rereading this and A Wind in the Door, I'm just like, "Take a chill pill, lady! You're a HUGE bitch!" Seriously! She does nothing but hem and haw and whine and screech--she wants to save X, but when the situation completely relies on her, she begs someone else to do it for her, she doesn't want to do this or that--have him do it instead--uggggghhhhh. I can't even decide if I hate her less than Pip from Great Expectations, that's how much I hate her. They have the same whiny personality, ughhhhh..... But yeah... it's still pretty good. I'm not that upset; I got it for like 50... 50 cents. Why is there no cents button the keyboard? What the hell? Have keyboards always been like that...? I can't see myself rereading it in the near future, but I'm glad I did--it makes more sense now, though it's not nearly the hardest in the series. A good book to have around the house.
Citation information: L'Engle, Madeleine. A Wrinkle in Time. USA: Book-of-the-Month Club, Inc, 1997. Print.
Answer to last post's cryptic song lyrics for Emma: I'm Like a Bird by Nelly Furtado (Oh wait, why include the answer! She got this one! Cheers to the first! : )
This post's cryptic song lyrics for Emma: Like a shooting star, I will go the distance--I will search the world, I will face its heart
PS. Might it be noted that this is the first post from Leopold, my new laptop. Yeah, he's named after who you think he's named after.
Showing posts with label Great Expectations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Great Expectations. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
These are crazy days
My most recent acquisition has been If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino. I have not capitalized the words that should be so because they never appear that way when the title is cited in the book itself. Hence, I don't feel obliged to? Though it bothers me like hell. But if Calvino isn't going to bother doing it himself, well!
The book is about... well, it's about two things. It is a collection of many short stories, all which give you a perfunctory taste of them, bound together by a back narrative of you, 'Reader', who simply wants to finish one of the novels, but is constantly being given snippets of false manuscripts, each intriguing, till the search is really no longer for 'If on a winter's night a traveler' (the first 'manuscript') it is for 'Around an empty grave or 'In a network of lines that enlace' or even 'Without fear of wind or vertigo'. You see? Anyway, what makes the book so notable is the fact that it uses as successfully as really is possible the third person narrative, that as opposed to saying "I did it" or "Sam did it" or whatever, it's "you did it". And for the most part, it never breaks that narrative, though it does sometimes, but cut him some slack--could you write a book like that? Maybe if you're in MENSA (incidentally, I borrowed this from Marky Mark). It's a really difficult style to write in. He also switches to Ludmilla's view (the female protagonist, the 'Other Reader') in the same style, which is kind of cool. Especially for female readers who may not be as drawn in, because it's fairly clear the 'Reader' is intended male.
It was an interesting book, in said style and for other reasons. It was intriguing, though it was predictable--not the stories themselves (which escalated in weirdness to almost the very last one) but the fact that oh, well, he's not going to finish the thing and he's going to get something new, damn it. So my mind started to stop being as invested in the interludes, because you know, what's the point? But that's not to say the interludes weren't good in themselves. Yes, they could have fit into something larger, but they worked well as their own short stories. There's only one or two I have real problems with.
I know you've been hearing this a lot from me lately, but I love the opening. Not necessarily the opening line, but that first bit--it's not quite a prologue, but it's not exactly what I'd call the first chapter, even though it is labeled as such... "You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, 'No, I don't want to watch TV!' Raise your voice--they won't hear you otherwise--'I'm reading! I don't want to be disturbed!' Maybe they haven't heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: 'I'm beginning to read Italo Calvino's new novel!' Or if you prefer, don't say anything; just hope they'll leave you alone" (3). Of course, this bit goes on for several pages (about six), telling you how you are, and honestly you're believing it, and sort of guiding you clearly in your mind, if not actually physically making you do what it suggests--that is, stretching out, making sure you have your cigarettes nearby, and so on. But it's probably one of the quickest ways to get someone involved in the text, of course, like was said, one of the hardest ways to work.
In the second chapter, an item I assume is a juke box is referred to as a "vibrant silence-killing machine" (12). Which is a very pretty turn of phrase, there.
"'Between Ozkarts and Kauderers peace lasts only from one funeral to the next, and the hatchet is not buried, but our dead are buried and we write on their graves: This was the Ozkarts' doing'" (40).
Oh, and I guess I should mention this, though I can't recall if it has arisen in the text, and I didn't bother marking it since it seemed obvious to me, though of course it's not obvious to everyone. The author is clearly Italian, and the book was translated from Italian. Often he mentions something like 'she spoke with the informal tu' or some such. Though I hated Italian class and managed a C average all three years and remember little more than how to say hotel (albergo), I do remember this. There are several forms of the word you, as in, you all, you all formal, you formal, you informal. (I believe this phenomena also exists in Spanish, and any other Latin-based language, I'd assume.) I can't remember what formal 'you' is, but informal is tu. Which would be the 'you' you use around friends and family, so when this lady (and other ladies, it tends to always be the women in this book) uses it when they meet for the first time it's kind of--not shocking, but strange. So. Yeah. In case you were wondering or planning on reading this...
"'...I wish the things I read weren't all present, so solid you can touch them; I would like to feel a presence around them, something else, you don't quite know what, the sign of some unknown thing...'" (46). Well, who likes a book about the contemporary anyway? Something new is much better than a dull recounting of what you know (though, fairly, I suppose there are those who much prefer and go searching for those books because unfortunately, they do exist). And I suppose yes, some books that I favor were contemporary at some point, but even so there's something unusual or different, even though at first glance or read it doesn't seem to be so fantastical. The best example hails from someone I am not as likely to favor, however... If I may step out onto a weak branch, I'm going to throw the baton to Charles Dickens--my brief consumption of his works and rudimentary knowledge of said works leads me to believe that a good portion of his writings relate to impoverished children/people. Well, okay, contemporary because there certainly were a lot of folks like that and still continue to be--but even so, there's a lot of ingredients that keep them from being a dull recounting of the times. I have in mind Great Expectations, by the way. I hate to go into it now, so surely you can google a synopsis or read it. (LOOK EMMA I'M RECOMMENDING CHARLES DICKENS.) That certainly was an oddity of events of contemporary times but with roots still in what was most likely a common situation--if you see what I mean? Maybe? Emma will have to check me on this one. Though even if I'm wrong it proves I respect him, even if him and I duke it out on a regular basis.
"'Me? I don't read books!' Irnerio says. 'What do you read, then?' 'Nothing. I've become so accustomed to not reading that I don't even read what appears before my eyes. It's not easy: they teach us to read as children, and for the rest of our lives we remain the slaves of all the written stuff they fling in front of us. I may have had to make some effort myself, at first, to learn not to read, but now it comes quite naturally to me. The secret is not refusing to look at the written words. On the contrary, you must look at them, intensely, until they disappear'" (49). Look me in the eye and tell me this doesn't look like it belongs in Catch-22. There's a scene later, very surreal, (which I didn't mark) where the Reader attempts to pull of a woman's clothes several times only to discover another layer beneath each previous layer. Eventually, he manages to get to the last set of clothes, and reveals her almost completely nude body. He says something like 'you wear so many uniforms, but you're naked now!' and she responds with something along the lines of 'No, this body is a uniform as well'. Well, whatever, my point is that she sounds very much like Julia from 1984. So... just thought I'd bring that up...
My favorite interlude is the 'excerpt' from Leaning from the steep slope. It tells of a convict trying to escape his prison (and eventually doing so) while circling a lady of the seaside town where his prison resides. I suppose it could be argued, maybe, that Calvino included such a broad array of stories not only to frustrate the Reader and of course move the story along and be the whole rudder to the story in the first place, but in the hopes of including at least one that leaves the actual reader of the story the you you, not the Reader you--the other you--intrigued and wanting to read on, though of course you can. So in some degree you can relate to the other Reader you. Leaning from the steep slope is the one I'd want nothing more than to read in its fictional completion.
"I took this dialogue as a warning to be on guard: the world is falling apart and tries to lure me into its disintegration" (64).
I hated Looks down in the gathering shadow. It's set in France, and a man and a woman are attempting to dispose of a body. That I followed rather well, I mean, that's pretty straightforward. Then, two-thirds of the way through, the main character of the story starts talking about how his daughter was a dancer who dances (or possibly has sex) with crocodiles. And then a kid has a tub of crocodiles and then the body of the dead man is gone. What.
"I would like to be able to write a book that is only an incipit, that maintains for its whole duration the potentiality of the beginning, the expectation still not focused on an object. But how could such a book be constructed? Would it break off after the first paragraph? Would the preliminaries be prolonged indefinitely? Would it set the beginning of one tale inside another, as in the Arabian Nights?" (177). Oh, Italo Calvino, I see what you did there. (Because this very book is essentially a little bit of--all of that, in a way.)
"His head is oblong horizontally, like a dirigible, and seems to hide many things behind the convexity of its brow" (180). I literally laughed out loud when I read this.
On the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon was another interlude that was just strange. I followed it easily enough, you'd have to be a fool not to follow this one successfully, but it was really weird. So this guy goes to live and work for a Japanese fellow (in Japan) and starts feeling... amorous towards his daughter. Then, he has sex with the Japanese fellow's wife, while both the daughter and the Japanese fellow come into the room and watch. That's not even the weirdest part--it was like a bad fanfiction. The sex part, I mean. Even Stephen King knows when to cut it off. I got a little put off with what transpired sexually. And by a little, I mean, I was weirded out like it was nobody's business.
Well, apparently I forgot to mark my favorite part, or accidentally pulled its marker out. It any case, my favorite scene happens relatively early on in which Ludmilla gets agitated by a book club trying to figure out the deeper meanings of the text, the metaphors, the allusions and so on--and she says something like, 'I could care less for all of that, I just want to read the book!' Though sometimes it is--dare I say it--rather fun to delve into and pursue that kind of thing, most of the time I have that attitude as well. I'd rather just enjoy the thing, okay? If it's necessary to know to understand the book, sure I'll sit through it, but come on, don't grate me here. Then, of course, on the other hand, there are books--actually only one--that I've wanted to read because I know about its symbols and metaphors, and those are what hooked me. The book in question is Ulysses by James Joyce. The whole book is--as I understand it--a 'modern-day' (well, modern in the terms of the last century) retelling of The Odyssey. Marky Mark sort of got into what symbolized what else between the two texts and I fell in love. But... of course, that may as well be the exception that makes the rule, there. I probably would have read it anyway, because what a cool name, but I probably wouldn't enjoy it in the same way--you know? If I even enjoy it the first time I do read it with knowing what I know... uh... wow. Where exactly did my topic go? Anyone? Help?
So, yes. Let's see, I guess I'm done there. The only news-worthy things are that... Well, I'm officially going to college, as in, I have a dorm and all that jazz. Yayyy. And, I found a 1910 copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray that's actually in rather lovely condition. So... Yup.
The book is about... well, it's about two things. It is a collection of many short stories, all which give you a perfunctory taste of them, bound together by a back narrative of you, 'Reader', who simply wants to finish one of the novels, but is constantly being given snippets of false manuscripts, each intriguing, till the search is really no longer for 'If on a winter's night a traveler' (the first 'manuscript') it is for 'Around an empty grave or 'In a network of lines that enlace' or even 'Without fear of wind or vertigo'. You see? Anyway, what makes the book so notable is the fact that it uses as successfully as really is possible the third person narrative, that as opposed to saying "I did it" or "Sam did it" or whatever, it's "you did it". And for the most part, it never breaks that narrative, though it does sometimes, but cut him some slack--could you write a book like that? Maybe if you're in MENSA (incidentally, I borrowed this from Marky Mark). It's a really difficult style to write in. He also switches to Ludmilla's view (the female protagonist, the 'Other Reader') in the same style, which is kind of cool. Especially for female readers who may not be as drawn in, because it's fairly clear the 'Reader' is intended male.
It was an interesting book, in said style and for other reasons. It was intriguing, though it was predictable--not the stories themselves (which escalated in weirdness to almost the very last one) but the fact that oh, well, he's not going to finish the thing and he's going to get something new, damn it. So my mind started to stop being as invested in the interludes, because you know, what's the point? But that's not to say the interludes weren't good in themselves. Yes, they could have fit into something larger, but they worked well as their own short stories. There's only one or two I have real problems with.
I know you've been hearing this a lot from me lately, but I love the opening. Not necessarily the opening line, but that first bit--it's not quite a prologue, but it's not exactly what I'd call the first chapter, even though it is labeled as such... "You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, 'No, I don't want to watch TV!' Raise your voice--they won't hear you otherwise--'I'm reading! I don't want to be disturbed!' Maybe they haven't heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: 'I'm beginning to read Italo Calvino's new novel!' Or if you prefer, don't say anything; just hope they'll leave you alone" (3). Of course, this bit goes on for several pages (about six), telling you how you are, and honestly you're believing it, and sort of guiding you clearly in your mind, if not actually physically making you do what it suggests--that is, stretching out, making sure you have your cigarettes nearby, and so on. But it's probably one of the quickest ways to get someone involved in the text, of course, like was said, one of the hardest ways to work.
In the second chapter, an item I assume is a juke box is referred to as a "vibrant silence-killing machine" (12). Which is a very pretty turn of phrase, there.
"'Between Ozkarts and Kauderers peace lasts only from one funeral to the next, and the hatchet is not buried, but our dead are buried and we write on their graves: This was the Ozkarts' doing'" (40).
Oh, and I guess I should mention this, though I can't recall if it has arisen in the text, and I didn't bother marking it since it seemed obvious to me, though of course it's not obvious to everyone. The author is clearly Italian, and the book was translated from Italian. Often he mentions something like 'she spoke with the informal tu' or some such. Though I hated Italian class and managed a C average all three years and remember little more than how to say hotel (albergo), I do remember this. There are several forms of the word you, as in, you all, you all formal, you formal, you informal. (I believe this phenomena also exists in Spanish, and any other Latin-based language, I'd assume.) I can't remember what formal 'you' is, but informal is tu. Which would be the 'you' you use around friends and family, so when this lady (and other ladies, it tends to always be the women in this book) uses it when they meet for the first time it's kind of--not shocking, but strange. So. Yeah. In case you were wondering or planning on reading this...
"'...I wish the things I read weren't all present, so solid you can touch them; I would like to feel a presence around them, something else, you don't quite know what, the sign of some unknown thing...'" (46). Well, who likes a book about the contemporary anyway? Something new is much better than a dull recounting of what you know (though, fairly, I suppose there are those who much prefer and go searching for those books because unfortunately, they do exist). And I suppose yes, some books that I favor were contemporary at some point, but even so there's something unusual or different, even though at first glance or read it doesn't seem to be so fantastical. The best example hails from someone I am not as likely to favor, however... If I may step out onto a weak branch, I'm going to throw the baton to Charles Dickens--my brief consumption of his works and rudimentary knowledge of said works leads me to believe that a good portion of his writings relate to impoverished children/people. Well, okay, contemporary because there certainly were a lot of folks like that and still continue to be--but even so, there's a lot of ingredients that keep them from being a dull recounting of the times. I have in mind Great Expectations, by the way. I hate to go into it now, so surely you can google a synopsis or read it. (LOOK EMMA I'M RECOMMENDING CHARLES DICKENS.) That certainly was an oddity of events of contemporary times but with roots still in what was most likely a common situation--if you see what I mean? Maybe? Emma will have to check me on this one. Though even if I'm wrong it proves I respect him, even if him and I duke it out on a regular basis.
"'Me? I don't read books!' Irnerio says. 'What do you read, then?' 'Nothing. I've become so accustomed to not reading that I don't even read what appears before my eyes. It's not easy: they teach us to read as children, and for the rest of our lives we remain the slaves of all the written stuff they fling in front of us. I may have had to make some effort myself, at first, to learn not to read, but now it comes quite naturally to me. The secret is not refusing to look at the written words. On the contrary, you must look at them, intensely, until they disappear'" (49). Look me in the eye and tell me this doesn't look like it belongs in Catch-22. There's a scene later, very surreal, (which I didn't mark) where the Reader attempts to pull of a woman's clothes several times only to discover another layer beneath each previous layer. Eventually, he manages to get to the last set of clothes, and reveals her almost completely nude body. He says something like 'you wear so many uniforms, but you're naked now!' and she responds with something along the lines of 'No, this body is a uniform as well'. Well, whatever, my point is that she sounds very much like Julia from 1984. So... just thought I'd bring that up...
My favorite interlude is the 'excerpt' from Leaning from the steep slope. It tells of a convict trying to escape his prison (and eventually doing so) while circling a lady of the seaside town where his prison resides. I suppose it could be argued, maybe, that Calvino included such a broad array of stories not only to frustrate the Reader and of course move the story along and be the whole rudder to the story in the first place, but in the hopes of including at least one that leaves the actual reader of the story the you you, not the Reader you--the other you--intrigued and wanting to read on, though of course you can. So in some degree you can relate to the other Reader you. Leaning from the steep slope is the one I'd want nothing more than to read in its fictional completion.
"I took this dialogue as a warning to be on guard: the world is falling apart and tries to lure me into its disintegration" (64).
I hated Looks down in the gathering shadow. It's set in France, and a man and a woman are attempting to dispose of a body. That I followed rather well, I mean, that's pretty straightforward. Then, two-thirds of the way through, the main character of the story starts talking about how his daughter was a dancer who dances (or possibly has sex) with crocodiles. And then a kid has a tub of crocodiles and then the body of the dead man is gone. What.
"I would like to be able to write a book that is only an incipit, that maintains for its whole duration the potentiality of the beginning, the expectation still not focused on an object. But how could such a book be constructed? Would it break off after the first paragraph? Would the preliminaries be prolonged indefinitely? Would it set the beginning of one tale inside another, as in the Arabian Nights?" (177). Oh, Italo Calvino, I see what you did there. (Because this very book is essentially a little bit of--all of that, in a way.)
"His head is oblong horizontally, like a dirigible, and seems to hide many things behind the convexity of its brow" (180). I literally laughed out loud when I read this.
On the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon was another interlude that was just strange. I followed it easily enough, you'd have to be a fool not to follow this one successfully, but it was really weird. So this guy goes to live and work for a Japanese fellow (in Japan) and starts feeling... amorous towards his daughter. Then, he has sex with the Japanese fellow's wife, while both the daughter and the Japanese fellow come into the room and watch. That's not even the weirdest part--it was like a bad fanfiction. The sex part, I mean. Even Stephen King knows when to cut it off. I got a little put off with what transpired sexually. And by a little, I mean, I was weirded out like it was nobody's business.
Well, apparently I forgot to mark my favorite part, or accidentally pulled its marker out. It any case, my favorite scene happens relatively early on in which Ludmilla gets agitated by a book club trying to figure out the deeper meanings of the text, the metaphors, the allusions and so on--and she says something like, 'I could care less for all of that, I just want to read the book!' Though sometimes it is--dare I say it--rather fun to delve into and pursue that kind of thing, most of the time I have that attitude as well. I'd rather just enjoy the thing, okay? If it's necessary to know to understand the book, sure I'll sit through it, but come on, don't grate me here. Then, of course, on the other hand, there are books--actually only one--that I've wanted to read because I know about its symbols and metaphors, and those are what hooked me. The book in question is Ulysses by James Joyce. The whole book is--as I understand it--a 'modern-day' (well, modern in the terms of the last century) retelling of The Odyssey. Marky Mark sort of got into what symbolized what else between the two texts and I fell in love. But... of course, that may as well be the exception that makes the rule, there. I probably would have read it anyway, because what a cool name, but I probably wouldn't enjoy it in the same way--you know? If I even enjoy it the first time I do read it with knowing what I know... uh... wow. Where exactly did my topic go? Anyone? Help?
So, yes. Let's see, I guess I'm done there. The only news-worthy things are that... Well, I'm officially going to college, as in, I have a dorm and all that jazz. Yayyy. And, I found a 1910 copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray that's actually in rather lovely condition. So... Yup.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
God and death are none of my concern; I'm no philosopher
Woah! Apparently, blogger can now be accessed from school! So, maybe you will get updates from me in November... Like I said before, the reason why I'm really not writing is because of Nanowrimo, which I'm about 2,000 words behind on anyways. My story is confusing as hell and terrible, but that's beside the point. It's a free writing thing, 1500 words a day for a goal of I don't even know at the end of November. Somehow, someone weeds through all these and decides on one to be published, which is why I have hope for my awful story, because I read the one that was published a few years ago and wow! Ah... uh. How do I say this diplomatically? It was no Macbeth. It was no Hamlet. It was about a Romeo and Juliet. Maybe I'm garnering bad karma here, but dude. It was bleh.
Anyways, because I keep on forgetting to put my NanoWrimo on a hard drive I was just messing on the computer and here I am. Wishing I brought my Faustus book like I was planning to. However, I can complain about it without the book in hand. So, first off, the author, Christopher Marlowe, was the man of the time. After he was killed, Shakespeare was the coolest guy around, but Chris Marlowe was the main-er man. This book (play) of his is like the book of his. It's about Dr Faustus, an apparently accomplished doctor who decides within the first two pages suddenly that he wants to have the power to bring men from the dead. I hated Frankenstein, but Victor at least thought it out. Dr Faustus was just like, you know what I'm going to do today? Sell my soul to Satan. So the beginning was kind of sort of definitely rushed. (According to Wikipedia, Goethe's rewrite pins him as a man who wants more than earthly pleasures, IE, "earthly meat and drink." Which I think I prefer, gives him more of a back story, which Marlowe's chorus kind of failed at.)
One thing I can remember is Faustus demanding a wife from the demon he named his servant for his lifetime, Mephastophilis, and M. (you think I'm retyping that? Not in this lifetime.) summons a demon woman and Faustus says "Oh! What a hot a whore!" which made me practically die laughing. Just being honest... it was pretty hilarious.
What else can I remember off the top of my head? Faustus had an annoying personality, it was actually quite similar to Pip from Dicken's Great Expectations (bear with me on this). Pip started Dicken's book as a poor kid who wanted to be rich, then a rich kid who decided no, that wasn't so great so he made people's lives miserable, and I think somehow he became lower class again (though I've repressed it, so...) and then marries a girl who abused him as a little kid. Throughout all this, he wheedles and whines and whilst reading I often fantasized about hitting him over the head with a stovepipe. Basically, he was never happy, and he was a 'woe is me' fellow and nothing was ever great. Dr Faustus was basically the same--right after he trades his soul over to Satan he starts panicking (no sympathy, bro, it's not like you didn't know the end results) and regrets, but then somehow calms down again and goes to make everyone's lives miserable with his new demonic powers. Then he is going to die and cries that he's going to hell. It may seem a little mean that I'm calling him whiny, but seriously--he is warned a million times about this by M and even Lucifer, and even he's like oh eternal damnation! Crud! Aside from that, ugh. He and Pip have the kind of personalities I would kill someone for. Or maybe just punch them in the face.
Uh, what else? Later, Faustus sees Helen's summoned ghost (the Helen; Paris's Helen) and says the famous lines: "Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Illium?" Which was awesome and may have been my favorite part just because I had no idea where those lines came from. I don't recall if they're said exactly in The Illiad (for example, they say she launched a thousand ships, but not exactly in this verse) unless if I missed it, but if not, it's kind of cool that this is where those famous lines came from. I love those lines, even if I can't figure out why Chris was so popular.
EDIT: An interesting scene is when M. talks about his life with Lucifer and how he came to fall into such state. (Faustus, the genius, asks M. where M. is damned. Uhhh, duhhhhh?) Even after wishing he could save M.'s soul (M. describes his fall in quite thorough detail, too) to give him thousands of souls (noble, and sweet), he still goes ahead with trading his soul over to Lucifer. Uh, what? Idiot. Speaking of Lucifer, Satan and Lucifer were trending topics on twitter today. Why...?
"'...Or as beautiful/As was bright Lucifer, before his fall.'" I never get this. Lucifer, before falling, was said to be beautiful--so beautiful his very skin glowed and sparkled as though from within (I'm paraphrasing from several sources) but obviously he's usually pictured as a red humanoid being with goat horns and goat legs and a tail. (I'm thinking it was inspired by Pan, a Greek god who was a bit of a trickster, loner, and kind of mean to humans.) I DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS. I can imagine a subtle change, in the eyes or face, becoming cruel, hard, or narrow, but not such a dramatic change like this. There's no satisfying mythology regarding this (I don't really recall a thorough description of this change in Paradise Lost, just that his mindset had changed) and in church, I've noticed, they never seem to touch upon the darker things, here is a good example of an Episcopalian lesson: "Jesus was a good guy, and told many parables. One if his followers, Judas, was jealous and greedy and sold him out." Satan does appear on and off in the bible (I think the only time he physically appears in Jesus in the desert) but he's always... demonized. The stories we learn are always archetypes, like he was a wicked man, and then he was good. Jesus was always good. Moses was always good. (Until I saw The Prince of Egypt, I had no idea he beat an Egyptian man to death). Satan, always bad, never did he dream of anything more. (Accept my extremely biased opinions, thanks to John Milton). So, I think Lucifer's visage stayed just the same before and after. I mean, doesn't Satan come in a beautiful visage? Or something like that?
They make a reference to the tale of the hunter (I'm not spelling his name) and Diana--a hunter in the woods came across the goddess Diana bathing, and she became so enraged she splashed him with water and he turned into a doe and his own dogs turned upon him. Is it odd I like that one?
A servant calls someone "Sir Sauce-box". That probably was his job (or something like that) but. SAUCE-BOX. OH MY GOD. Shankspeare Sauce-Box??? Oh my God, yes. YES.
I know I'm just reiterating, but those lines about Helen are incredibly poetic. I'm keeping the book for those lines.
THE END.
What else have I read? I finished 1984, The Cartoon History of the Universe Volumes 1&2, and am currently in the midst of The Terrible Tudors and Slimy Stuarts (A Horrible Histories book!) and The Arabian Nights, which the publishers decided would be made better if they only collected ten out of the original 250+ stories from The Thousand and One Nights. (Whose idea was this!?)
In other news, I need a nap badly.
Anyways, because I keep on forgetting to put my NanoWrimo on a hard drive I was just messing on the computer and here I am. Wishing I brought my Faustus book like I was planning to. However, I can complain about it without the book in hand. So, first off, the author, Christopher Marlowe, was the man of the time. After he was killed, Shakespeare was the coolest guy around, but Chris Marlowe was the main-er man. This book (play) of his is like the book of his. It's about Dr Faustus, an apparently accomplished doctor who decides within the first two pages suddenly that he wants to have the power to bring men from the dead. I hated Frankenstein, but Victor at least thought it out. Dr Faustus was just like, you know what I'm going to do today? Sell my soul to Satan. So the beginning was kind of sort of definitely rushed. (According to Wikipedia, Goethe's rewrite pins him as a man who wants more than earthly pleasures, IE, "earthly meat and drink." Which I think I prefer, gives him more of a back story, which Marlowe's chorus kind of failed at.)
One thing I can remember is Faustus demanding a wife from the demon he named his servant for his lifetime, Mephastophilis, and M. (you think I'm retyping that? Not in this lifetime.) summons a demon woman and Faustus says "Oh! What a hot a whore!" which made me practically die laughing. Just being honest... it was pretty hilarious.
What else can I remember off the top of my head? Faustus had an annoying personality, it was actually quite similar to Pip from Dicken's Great Expectations (bear with me on this). Pip started Dicken's book as a poor kid who wanted to be rich, then a rich kid who decided no, that wasn't so great so he made people's lives miserable, and I think somehow he became lower class again (though I've repressed it, so...) and then marries a girl who abused him as a little kid. Throughout all this, he wheedles and whines and whilst reading I often fantasized about hitting him over the head with a stovepipe. Basically, he was never happy, and he was a 'woe is me' fellow and nothing was ever great. Dr Faustus was basically the same--right after he trades his soul over to Satan he starts panicking (no sympathy, bro, it's not like you didn't know the end results) and regrets, but then somehow calms down again and goes to make everyone's lives miserable with his new demonic powers. Then he is going to die and cries that he's going to hell. It may seem a little mean that I'm calling him whiny, but seriously--he is warned a million times about this by M and even Lucifer, and even he's like oh eternal damnation! Crud! Aside from that, ugh. He and Pip have the kind of personalities I would kill someone for. Or maybe just punch them in the face.
Uh, what else? Later, Faustus sees Helen's summoned ghost (the Helen; Paris's Helen) and says the famous lines: "Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Illium?" Which was awesome and may have been my favorite part just because I had no idea where those lines came from. I don't recall if they're said exactly in The Illiad (for example, they say she launched a thousand ships, but not exactly in this verse) unless if I missed it, but if not, it's kind of cool that this is where those famous lines came from. I love those lines, even if I can't figure out why Chris was so popular.
EDIT: An interesting scene is when M. talks about his life with Lucifer and how he came to fall into such state. (Faustus, the genius, asks M. where M. is damned. Uhhh, duhhhhh?) Even after wishing he could save M.'s soul (M. describes his fall in quite thorough detail, too) to give him thousands of souls (noble, and sweet), he still goes ahead with trading his soul over to Lucifer. Uh, what? Idiot. Speaking of Lucifer, Satan and Lucifer were trending topics on twitter today. Why...?
"'...Or as beautiful/As was bright Lucifer, before his fall.'" I never get this. Lucifer, before falling, was said to be beautiful--so beautiful his very skin glowed and sparkled as though from within (I'm paraphrasing from several sources) but obviously he's usually pictured as a red humanoid being with goat horns and goat legs and a tail. (I'm thinking it was inspired by Pan, a Greek god who was a bit of a trickster, loner, and kind of mean to humans.) I DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS. I can imagine a subtle change, in the eyes or face, becoming cruel, hard, or narrow, but not such a dramatic change like this. There's no satisfying mythology regarding this (I don't really recall a thorough description of this change in Paradise Lost, just that his mindset had changed) and in church, I've noticed, they never seem to touch upon the darker things, here is a good example of an Episcopalian lesson: "Jesus was a good guy, and told many parables. One if his followers, Judas, was jealous and greedy and sold him out." Satan does appear on and off in the bible (I think the only time he physically appears in Jesus in the desert) but he's always... demonized. The stories we learn are always archetypes, like he was a wicked man, and then he was good. Jesus was always good. Moses was always good. (Until I saw The Prince of Egypt, I had no idea he beat an Egyptian man to death). Satan, always bad, never did he dream of anything more. (Accept my extremely biased opinions, thanks to John Milton). So, I think Lucifer's visage stayed just the same before and after. I mean, doesn't Satan come in a beautiful visage? Or something like that?
They make a reference to the tale of the hunter (I'm not spelling his name) and Diana--a hunter in the woods came across the goddess Diana bathing, and she became so enraged she splashed him with water and he turned into a doe and his own dogs turned upon him. Is it odd I like that one?
A servant calls someone "Sir Sauce-box". That probably was his job (or something like that) but. SAUCE-BOX. OH MY GOD. Shankspeare Sauce-Box??? Oh my God, yes. YES.
I know I'm just reiterating, but those lines about Helen are incredibly poetic. I'm keeping the book for those lines.
THE END.
What else have I read? I finished 1984, The Cartoon History of the Universe Volumes 1&2, and am currently in the midst of The Terrible Tudors and Slimy Stuarts (A Horrible Histories book!) and The Arabian Nights, which the publishers decided would be made better if they only collected ten out of the original 250+ stories from The Thousand and One Nights. (Whose idea was this!?)
In other news, I need a nap badly.
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