The Embankment, under the bridge, on a blustery Sunday morning, the wooden tables being unfolded before your very eyes, the books hastily carried from the big forest green boxes, Thames-side, to the tables, as if they were hot cakes; your sandwich and own reading material, pencils, etc. in your bag. The cold breeze on your face, the open northern light, the strange voices over your shoulder, your index finger rattling over the spines of the deeply creased books. All that is, on reflection, a slice of heaven.
~~~
Gopnik's book on Winter, Rachel Kushner's Flamethrowers, Z. Herbert's Still Life in a lovely Notting Hill edition, Walser's Microscripts, some Derek Raymond, De Lillo's Names, T. Judt's Memory Chalet...
Back in the land of the pure you pick up:
Speak, Memory.
James and the Giant Peach
Collected Stories, Lydia Davis
Selected Poems, R. Bly
Levels of life?, Julian Barnes.
I have no idea how, for example, L. Davis can be bought for 5 pounds here and 11 pounds in England. I suspect that the business is subsidized by the hair transplant business which the owner runs along with the book shop. An entrepreneur with a passion for books? when I make inquiries I am told that he isn't the brightest of sparks and probably doesn't understand the losses he's making. Hmm. A crap entrepreneur with a passion for books?
~~~
The Idea of North...just downloaded. Something to go with K. Jamie's Findings, the Gopnik, and Camus's Lyrical Essays.
Love-object or loveobject. A word in S. Johnson's dictionary. Now obsolete. A gift one makes to one's beloved. In the old b&w films you seem to recall that 'to make love' did not mean what it does today. Jeez, there isn't even any permanence to words any more. I suspect you have to go down the line and find something primitive, like water, or mother, for the word to be the same over the ages.
~~~
You'd forgotten how hot and horrid summeris in the land of the pure could be. Like a poor Russian aristocrat in a novel, you sit in isolation, the streets half empty, wondering what others are doing in their vacations (except it isn't Paris, but London).
For the first time in 20 years you're not fasting and it feels a bit strange. There are lots of people around to make me feel guilty (a non-Catholic Catholic's guilt?). Don't find not fasting to be liberating, but nor did I find fasting liberating either. I'm sure there's a spiritual element to it for some (most, even) but not for me. And, of course, it's ridiculous to "want" such an experience. Is there any getting away from the self's own perspective?
It's so humid that your clothes stick to your body and the only time you can genuinely feel at ease during the day is when you stand under the shower. Just standing there, not thinking of anything, breathing. Every year it seems as if your mind is slowing down. It's not that you really ever had any technical competence or intelligence from the outset. But you did imagine, even if only vaguely, that by now you would have understood something of life and that that middle age would have made you if not wise then at least not so clumsy. But why should the mere passing of time confer anything on you? There's no fool like an old fool.
~~~
Was reading something about failure (yeah, what greater sign of failure could there be than reading about it?!). What if you're simply not good enough? It wasn't the stars or other people conspiring against you; it wasn't some lack of effort on your part or that you didn't understand there were only a few windows of opportunity. That kind of realization can be devastating-if, that is, you set any great store to the word 'success'.
But what of those whose soul has grown indifferent, lukewarm and placid? Those for whom neither success nor failure matter that much? The drop-outs, the floaters.
~~~
Gopnik's book on Winter, Rachel Kushner's Flamethrowers, Z. Herbert's Still Life in a lovely Notting Hill edition, Walser's Microscripts, some Derek Raymond, De Lillo's Names, T. Judt's Memory Chalet...
Back in the land of the pure you pick up:
Speak, Memory.
James and the Giant Peach
Collected Stories, Lydia Davis
Selected Poems, R. Bly
Levels of life?, Julian Barnes.
I have no idea how, for example, L. Davis can be bought for 5 pounds here and 11 pounds in England. I suspect that the business is subsidized by the hair transplant business which the owner runs along with the book shop. An entrepreneur with a passion for books? when I make inquiries I am told that he isn't the brightest of sparks and probably doesn't understand the losses he's making. Hmm. A crap entrepreneur with a passion for books?
~~~
The Idea of North...just downloaded. Something to go with K. Jamie's Findings, the Gopnik, and Camus's Lyrical Essays.
Love-object or loveobject. A word in S. Johnson's dictionary. Now obsolete. A gift one makes to one's beloved. In the old b&w films you seem to recall that 'to make love' did not mean what it does today. Jeez, there isn't even any permanence to words any more. I suspect you have to go down the line and find something primitive, like water, or mother, for the word to be the same over the ages.
~~~
You'd forgotten how hot and horrid summeris in the land of the pure could be. Like a poor Russian aristocrat in a novel, you sit in isolation, the streets half empty, wondering what others are doing in their vacations (except it isn't Paris, but London).
For the first time in 20 years you're not fasting and it feels a bit strange. There are lots of people around to make me feel guilty (a non-Catholic Catholic's guilt?). Don't find not fasting to be liberating, but nor did I find fasting liberating either. I'm sure there's a spiritual element to it for some (most, even) but not for me. And, of course, it's ridiculous to "want" such an experience. Is there any getting away from the self's own perspective?
It's so humid that your clothes stick to your body and the only time you can genuinely feel at ease during the day is when you stand under the shower. Just standing there, not thinking of anything, breathing. Every year it seems as if your mind is slowing down. It's not that you really ever had any technical competence or intelligence from the outset. But you did imagine, even if only vaguely, that by now you would have understood something of life and that that middle age would have made you if not wise then at least not so clumsy. But why should the mere passing of time confer anything on you? There's no fool like an old fool.
~~~
Was reading something about failure (yeah, what greater sign of failure could there be than reading about it?!). What if you're simply not good enough? It wasn't the stars or other people conspiring against you; it wasn't some lack of effort on your part or that you didn't understand there were only a few windows of opportunity. That kind of realization can be devastating-if, that is, you set any great store to the word 'success'.
But what of those whose soul has grown indifferent, lukewarm and placid? Those for whom neither success nor failure matter that much? The drop-outs, the floaters.
No comments:
Post a Comment