Book Hunting

It's been a busy couple of days.

Friday I stayed home all day and read about 120 pp. of my nonfiction writing course and philosophy course (I have to summarize the first half of this philosophy text in written form for Tuesday, which I should be doing now). I sat outside on the deck, the sky partly cloudy, clouds streaming past on a blue Ocean sky. That night, since my Dad wasn't home, I took my mom out for dinner at La Masia, a Spanish (like from Spain) restaurant I frequent.

Saturday even though I think I had a (hopefully) transient stomach flu, I spent the day book hunting with Earl in Bellingham. I wanted to take this one book in to Hendersons to see how much the owner would give me for it. The book is a beautiful leather edition of Zelazny's The Nine Princes of Amber or something like that. He wouldn't give me enough, so I brought home. Earl gave me some gas money in the form of a book he pulled out to sell to the Henderson owner; I told him I wanted it, and we arranged the trade. The book is an out of print, paperback edition of Contemporary Literary Theory: A Christian Appraisal. I also picked out a volume of Andre Gide's Journals and a novel by French writer called Bataille, Blue of Noon. Later that day, while I was out and about, my cousin and her boyfriend came over to stay a night. They've been hitchhiking across and around Canada, and they had some great stories about the different places and the different people they met.

Today I went to church for the first time in a while. It was good to go. My spirit deflates from all the blows it receives from my own weaknesses and from the steady bombardment of appetites and instant gratification projected at me from popular culture. I met this lady at church, the mother of an old high school friend Frank, and I asked her about Frank, how he's doing, etc.. She said, things are going better for Frank, and I knew exactly what she was talking about.

Frank was one of those guys who needed to be part of a social group so badly that he tried too hard. One could almost read the need on his face. And of course the exaggerated effort labeled him a goof ball. Youngest of the family of 5, I remember his older brother ignoring him completely and his sister being really mean. His father was an idiot too, a strict Dutchman with a temper. After high school, I have a feeling Frank had no friends whatsoever. He started to drink at bars, and eventually got into trouble with the law. Now he's divorced and struggling with alcoholism. A hard life. Some would say he made his own bed, but I doubt he asked to be born into a family that treated him like a piece of shit. It could have happened to me. To anyone not yet born.

My Vanity | Reading

I'm not sure what is happening to me, but my last entry seemed to me, upon re-reading it, utterly childish. I must apologize to myself, and to anyone reading. Trust me, I gave graduate from high school.

About four-fifths through the onerous reading assignment (about 200 pages of literary essays) I mentioned in my last entry, I stopped my frantic reading and my consciousness forced me to examine what I was doing, or rather how I was doing it. I was reading, sure, but I was skimming through huge sections of text, many of the essays were about writing and art, a topic I usually enjoy to read about, but I had to finish the assignment. My competitive nature and my need to show off -- a particular trait of mine I'm not proud of -- were compelling me it forward.

A brief digression about my competitive and alternately vain nature. Since grade school I can remember reading my report card which always contained average grades and excellent writing ups regarding my behavior. I remember how much these comments pleased me and gave me the feeling that I was special, that I was somehow better than my degenerate school mates.

Those initial shots of vanity influence me throughout high school, and I can remember the difficulty of balancing the appearance of "coolness" which usually meant appearing and acting in a rebellious way, balancing that with being an average but conscientious student who got along with the teachers themselves. And even now, having graduated with my second Bachelor's Degree, I am still conscious of what professors think of me, but now of course it has spread to the rest of the class, mainly because, unlike high school, it is "cool" to be smart in University.

So this trait was one of the factors propelling me through this book of essays. But I stopped suddenly. The assignment was crazy. Shouldn't a writing class try to instill a love of language and an appreciation for the written word? We were being asked to disrespect all these carefully put together words and sentences by skimming through page after page, sometimes only reading the first sentence in a paragraph, sometimes both the first one and the last one. For some classes it's inevitable, but for a writing class the assignment struck me as counterproductive at least.

I imagined being at a university like Harvard, taking a writing course from a famous professor/writer, perhaps a Nobel Prize winner, and being given an assignment like this: read the last half of this book in a day and a half. A day in a half later, he or she would ask a show of hands for who finished the readings. Several would lift their hands, pride shining on their faces, their heads and eyes swivelling onto colleagues who hadn't finished. Then the professor would say, "okay, anyone with their hands up can leave, if you don't care about the written word enough to refuse me and stand up for it, for the integrity of art, you don't have the passion to write, try again next semester." Now that would be something to see, a professor with that kind of passion for language and for other people's work.

Needless to say, I stopped reading right there. But the professor today did not say anything of the kind -- hardly anybody finished anyway. I wonder if I'm the only one thinking this way. Am I obsessed? I wasn't disappointed because I didn't have my hopes up. I've always wished -- and by always I mean since grade eight -- I could have gone to a Ivy League University, where the professors are simply outstanding.

A Good Semester?

I attended my first Creative Writing Nonfiction course today. It looks like a lot of writing and it looks like it's going to be a fun class, not least for the fact that there are several extremely nice looking girls in there. Several friends are taking the same course too. I know several people and my philosophy too, so it should be a good semester.

For Nonfiction, we were asked to read half a book by Wednesday. A little oppressive I think, but I know what she's doing, most of the other professors do not assign any real work in the first week of classes, so she figures we have all the time in the world (oops, cliche) to read. We do, or least I do, but two hundred pages in a day and a half is a bit much.

The rain cleared up a little today and the sun vaporized the rest of the white fluffy clouds. I went out there to be bathed in light. It felt great, like pure energy. I am solar powered.

The barbecue yesterday was a semi disaster. I knew it would be tough to get some of the guys together, but I didn't think it would be that tough. Several of them have their lives completely controlled by their girlfriends/wives. Devo had his in-laws over on the weekend, and there was no escape for him on penalty of death. Kevin and Earl had to visit their in-laws. Kevin phoned to cancel as the barbecue was happening. Drew had to go -- get this -- to a Tupperware party with his girlfriend given by his girlfriend's best friend. He couldn't get out of it. Brian had to spend time with his family, because he's been working long hours (okay, this is a good reason). Nigel had a family thing (it's his birthday on Wednesday, which is another good reason). Trevor didn't call and didn't show up. Steve was putting together a roller hockey team. Etc. etc.

So the football pool is a no go. Big fucking surprise. I wonder if it's just me who enjoys socializing, talking, eating, and drinking -- having a good time together. I don't know. I get sick and tired of pushing and maintaining friendships, yet what would I do without them.

I was looking through Don Quixote de la Mancha again for my review. I cannot believe what an awesome book it truly is. It's definitely in the top twenty of the books I've read. And I was looking over my reading list the other day, thinking to myself, you know, I haven't read a really bad novel in years, I guess it's just because I don't start novels unless I know something about them or about the author or about their importance in the Canon. And it's true, one of those traits that scream: anal retentive. But it's also about time management. Books take time. My reading begins to sound like a disaster area, triage: this book could be read but you don't have the time to waste; this book should be (or, would be nice to) read eventually but it's not urgent; this book must be read now otherwise I will either never read it or it has been put off long enough or I need books to take in to trade for other books so I should read it. The image of a train wreck crystallizes with one look at my bookshelves.

Addiction and Guilt

Human nature is a weird thing. I drink an insipidly addictive combination of hot chocolate and coffee called a mocha. About three cups a day, which is three cups too many. I'm allergic to chocolate and coffee, and mocha just kills me, my stomach twists like a weasel on amphetamines, I get the shakes, and it makes me really drowsy. So this morning I get up with the thought: "Today I go without. I can do it." And I keep repeating this mantra to myself until I'm completely up and around. I go to the kitchen, thinking "drink tea, just drink tea, no big deal" and as soon as my mother asks if I would like something to drink, because she's in there already I say "sure, give me a mocha." It's like my mind suddenly shortcircuited. It was like a flash of mindlessness. I've had that before, many times. I'm out with a couple of buddies and we're drinking. I know I've had enough, but somebody, the waitress or a friend, asks me if I'd like another, and before I realize it, I've said yes. It's really weird, how our minds work, how little control we have despite thinking the opposite.

Dostoevsky's novels are full of characters pulled in two directions. Like Crime and Punishment which is full of guilt and a desire to confess to a murder, despite receiving a pleasure out of getting away with murder, and enjoying the guilt as well. The ambiguous pleasures of loving and hating at the same time and self-consciously knowing it and enjoying or despising that knowledge. The ambiguous discourse between love and hate is at the center of Dostoevsky's characters in "The Idiot" -- love, hate, and the nature of innocence.

Subconsciously, on some perverse level, I myself enjoy my weaknesses and enjoy feeling guilty about them, perhaps because they are like habits and something is better than nothing, and perhaps because I feel -- while knowing otherwise -- that my guilt absolves me. I'm hyperbolic again, but just ask me about writing guilt.

It's cold and raining today. I started a new novel a couple of days ago, so instead of my original plans to go downtown to an outside vintage car show, I'm staying inside reading, listening to music, and sporadically watching television (there's nothing on as usual). The novel I've begun is called The Four Wisemen by Michel Tournier. I've read a couple of his novels before: The Ogre and Friday, or the Other Island -- both excellent. Tournier's novels often depict historical novels (Robinson Crusoe), historical events (World War II), or historical people (Joan d'Arc) in a slightly altered light, often with humor and irony. "The Four Wisemen" is about the three wisemen who travel to see the birth of Jesus Christ, except in Tournier's version they all have alternate motives for being on the road and there's a fourth. I'm about halfway, and it's enjoyable.

For tomorrow I planned a football pool barbecue, but about half of the people I called and invited cannot come. No big deal. I'm going to serve smoked salmon with cream cheese on crackers, chips, and lots of beer. Depending on how many people come, I may serve steaks and green salad with this wicked wine vinegar and garlic dressing. It's kind of too late to start a pool, as the season has already started, but who cares, it's a good excuse to get together.

Seizure

Okay, my computer sabotaged yesterday's entry. It was pretty long too. I don't understand why I can't seem to buy a computer that doesn't seize when I have just written something that I want to save, and think of saving, but do not save. Ever. It's the worst feeling. Suddenly nothing moves. The world falls down through the bottom of your stomach. Curling like a bladed kidney stone in your guts.

I think I wrote something about Sunday which I spent with Rob and his brother Chris. We went to Chapters/Starbucks for something to drink and to browse around before going out into the real world to do some serious drifting. We looked like three three-toed sloths on the make.

I encountered something funny at Chapters though. The whole store seems to be undergoing some type of restructuring or renovation. Easing through the popular fiction sections -- science-fiction, fantasy, horror, mystery, romances -- I look up suddenly for some reason and there, nestled between the mystery and the romance section, I spot the literary criticism and essays section. I chuckled. If only those high brow authors and scholars knew where their books were placed --

Yeah, I'm not hard to entertain. After the bookstore we zipped over to the mall, which was packed, and slouched around for a little while Rob hunted down some forsaken Country and Western CD he's been pining for since before the wheel was invented. Some people have no taste. I mean, I'm sorry, this New Country bites. If I'm going to listen to country -- they'll be serving ice water in hell first, of course -- I'm going to listen to Johnny Cash or Hank Williams.

I'm almost finished Jeanette Winterson's book of essays. It's a bit draining. Her opinions on art seem to waiver and seem to contradict themselves but not quite, I find it exhausting. I also find exhausting people telling me how to write, especially when I don't agree with their opinion, and yet some of what they say makes sense. She thinks plot or story in novels is obsolete. Style and language are the most important elements in fiction. Standard elements like plot and characterization are 19th-century conventions that authors, TV, and movies have worn out. But then she says that the beautiful thing, the essential characteristic of art, is its timelessness, that we can be moved by Shakespeare or Homer or Virgil. But isn't it the stories that move us? Not the style, not the language, not words, but the stories. It's the reason translations from another language move us. One of the most moving books I've ever read is Kafka's The Trial.

Whatever. The book makes me think and question my assumptions. I like that.

Today I went to the University bookstore to get my books for Philosophy of Mind -- I must have had a seizure just at the moment I selected this course, because the course number alone -- Philosophy 490 -- strikes darksome fear and dread. The books were outrageously expensive. Like a tub of Vaseline should have been included, thank you very much. Check these titles out and see if you don't go white from all the blood fleeing your extremities to take shelter behind your ribs: The Absent Body, Whatever Happened to the Soul?, and Kinds of Minds.

The other course I've signed up for, "Writing Nonfiction", is all booked up and I'm on a waiting list that stretches into eternity. I'm considering another course called "The Early English Novel" -- where we would get to read massive novels, and pay for the privilege!

If I sound cynical in this entry, it's because I'm just waiting for my computer to seize again. Oh yeah, come on baby, I just dare you, you want a piece of this, come on let's go.

Winterson's Writing

I suddenly became industrious yesterday, writing a couple of poems and half of a short story. The two poems are about labor, it being the labor day weekend. The first poem tentatively titled "Work" (yeah, original) is a medium length narrative musing on the solidity and order of completed work. Like when you finish something and feel good about it. The other poem is about the German phrase "Arbiet Macht Frei" which means "Work Will Set You Free" which hung on the gates of the Nazi concentration camps, i.e. Dachau. A particularly chilling phrase.

I revised said poems today, and continued reading Jeanette Winterson's book of essays Art Objects which has some beautiful things to say about art, how we should read, and collecting books (she likes to collect signed first editions from the modern period, 1900-45?). She also has an extended diatribe on the greatness of Virginia Woolf, inspiring me to put her on my reading list, particularly the difficult but, according to Winterson, virtuoso The Waves. I must admit the only Virginia Woolf novel I've read is her well-known To the Lighthouse which I enjoyed, especially the beautiful interlude between the first and second part of the novel, such beautiful language describing the agelessness of time and the seasons.

I finished Winterson's Novel Art and Lies. The novel tells the story of three people: an ex-priest and ex-surgeon, Handel, who embarks on a trip away from the city to the eastern coast of Britain; a female painter called Sophia and nicknamed Picasso who also takes the same train as Handel, escaping an abusive family; and the mythical poet Sappho who, you guessed it, also rides the train, a mysterious character that sometimes seems corporeal sometimes not, also perhaps following Picasso who she once saved from death. The novel alternates between these characters, but the stories of the characters connect in mysterious ways. If it seems confusing, it is.

But it's a short novel, and I just continued on reading hoping that it would all of makes sense somehow. And it does, sort of. As usual Winterson left me breathless with some of her passages. She also made me wince with some of her mini-sermons. The tone of the novel oscillates from lightness to heaviness. Images of light, painter, and sex pervade the novel which is written in a poetic, associative language that moves and multiplies itself into plentitude.

I enjoyed the novel, and it created its own reality which is something I look for in a novel (something I picked up from Winterson), but its reality lacked a cohesiveness and left me confused without remedy. I don't mind reading books over to understand them better, like for instance, I had to read Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury three times to begin to understand what had happened and what was happening. But with "Art and Lies" I don't get the sense that it would be any easier to piece it together (it, being the story) my second time through. I like stories even if they are fragmented and pieces are in the wind. I can't read novels for their language alone. I think it will try Winterson's novel again, but not right away.

I watched a few movies the last couple of days. I rented "An American in Paris", Strangers on a Train, and "Great Expectations" (the contemporary version with Ethan Hawke). I watched the latter a couple of days ago, and once again rue the fact that I don't have a big screen TV. It's such a visually rich movie, beautifully shot with extraordinary art direction. It blew me away when I watched it on the big screen. Today I watched An American in Paris which I adore. The only musical I can stand. Principally because Gene Kelly is simply excellent, delivering the Gershwin music and dancing with a particular flair that entrances. Tonight I might watch the Hitchcock film, just to spice up my dreams with a little murder.