A Superb Writer ™ 2½ # 999, written in light gold on a deep burgundy coloured lead pencil; also, a green and black striped one: 3M Scotch™ Professionals, which reminds you a bit of the indestructible yellow and black striped one from the old country.
Listening to music or looking at a painting is, perhaps, some kind of uninterrupted experience, where you passively await a moment to unfold, for an "experience" where disparate feelings are brought into focus, lucidity, even though one spoils it by seeking it. Perhaps your lack of training or skill means that memory plays less of a role here; when you read, on the other hand, there are always half-familiar thoughts, deep reminders of some vaguely comprehended truth.
A perfectly quiet and untroubled morning. Grilled croissant with cheese and steaming hot tea. The lights down, the grey light from outside filtering through the drawn shades; a kid two seats from you is asleep on the chair. Next to you, two hijabis sit down and natter away for a while. The dullness of the religious knows no end. Then a slightly older kid walks in, a florid pink shirt with wide 1970's collars, a purple corduroy jacket and pointed boots; a well-trimmed stubble, droopy moustache and an impenetrable oval face...gel-backed hair..all gave the impression of a low-level criminal. Register the details, for what they're worth, which isn't much.
Outside it is unseasonably warm. God has given up on winter.
~~~
It's mainly Cheever's writerly style that convinces you to continue with his journals. The odd insight here and there, interspersed with the mind-numbing tedium of his anxieties and mania for noting down exactly how much he's drunk during the day. There's something suspicious about a person getting drunk on martinis. You can't wait till "the fifties" end and we put all that hypocrisy and fakeness to one side as we enter-hopefully-a more honest, less bogus and less guilt-ridden sixties.
~~~
Meanwhile, DeLillo's Great Jones has stalled. What at the beginning came across as fresh, "funky", has petered out into a lot of irritating prancing about and "stageiness". Seventy, eighty pages in and for the life of me I can't go on. A familiar story, of course. Forty pages into Yellow Birds. Lots of dust. And, of course, Exley's Fan's Notes stands as a kind of emblem for all failed attempts: three starts, and counting.
~~~
Listening to music or looking at a painting is, perhaps, some kind of uninterrupted experience, where you passively await a moment to unfold, for an "experience" where disparate feelings are brought into focus, lucidity, even though one spoils it by seeking it. Perhaps your lack of training or skill means that memory plays less of a role here; when you read, on the other hand, there are always half-familiar thoughts, deep reminders of some vaguely comprehended truth.
A perfectly quiet and untroubled morning. Grilled croissant with cheese and steaming hot tea. The lights down, the grey light from outside filtering through the drawn shades; a kid two seats from you is asleep on the chair. Next to you, two hijabis sit down and natter away for a while. The dullness of the religious knows no end. Then a slightly older kid walks in, a florid pink shirt with wide 1970's collars, a purple corduroy jacket and pointed boots; a well-trimmed stubble, droopy moustache and an impenetrable oval face...gel-backed hair..all gave the impression of a low-level criminal. Register the details, for what they're worth, which isn't much.
Outside it is unseasonably warm. God has given up on winter.
~~~
It's mainly Cheever's writerly style that convinces you to continue with his journals. The odd insight here and there, interspersed with the mind-numbing tedium of his anxieties and mania for noting down exactly how much he's drunk during the day. There's something suspicious about a person getting drunk on martinis. You can't wait till "the fifties" end and we put all that hypocrisy and fakeness to one side as we enter-hopefully-a more honest, less bogus and less guilt-ridden sixties.
~~~
Meanwhile, DeLillo's Great Jones has stalled. What at the beginning came across as fresh, "funky", has petered out into a lot of irritating prancing about and "stageiness". Seventy, eighty pages in and for the life of me I can't go on. A familiar story, of course. Forty pages into Yellow Birds. Lots of dust. And, of course, Exley's Fan's Notes stands as a kind of emblem for all failed attempts: three starts, and counting.
~~~
No comments:
Post a Comment