While I was away I read The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera. Prettymuch every one of his lines is mind-blowing, but here I've picked a couple for you. Consider them an invitation if you've never read him before.
For Sabina, living in truth, lying neither to ourselves nor to others, was possible only away from the public: the moment someone keeps an eye on what we do, we involuntarily make allowances for that eye, and nothing we do is truthful. Having a public, keeping the public in mind, means living in lies. Sabina despised literature in which people give away all kinds of intimate secrets about themselves and their friends. A man who loses his privacy loses everything, Sabina thought. And a man who gives it up of his own free will is a monster. That was why Sabina did not suffer in the least from having to keep her love secret. On the contrary, only by doing so could she live in truth.
And:
In the realm of totalitarian kitsch, all answers are given in advance and preclude any questions. It follows, then, that the true opponent of totalitarian kitsch is the person who asks questions. A question is like a knife that slices through the stage backdrop and gives us a look at what lies hidden behind it. It fact, that was exactly how Sabina had explained the meaning of her paintings to Tereza: on the surface, and intelligible lie; underneath, the unintelligible truth showing through.
I'm beginning to think that all truths are unintelligible, and are, therefore, unacceptable to many people. Perhaps that's why this book appeals to me so much.
Incidentally, The Unbearable Lightness of Being revived that old, forgotten urge to throw the book across the room. It had been a while. But it's good to know I'm still alive.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
New rules
- No more content that needs editing.
- No more caving on #1.
- No more bullshit.
- No more fucking whatever.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Mind-blowing lines #24
You know, Man Booker Prize-winners are usually pretty reliable reads. I've come to this conclusion after buying (yet another) one on the strength of the prize (because you can never trust either cover notes or review excerpts, in my experience) and being bowled over.
The White Tiger is the first novel of the young Aravind Adiga, who's got the odd writing credit to his name. (Yes, that tone is one of envious adoration. I'm conflicted. Let's move on.)
The thing is, it's one of those books that isn't about glitteringly beautiful prose, but about a glittering story, fabulously told. That makes it a tough candidate for Mind-blowing lines, because the mind-blowing is in the whole book, not just its lines.
However, I couldn't live with myself if I didn't scream its virtues from the rooftops. So I wanted to give you a little excerpt with a lot of backstory.
Context is everything with Adiga. Everything.
Here, the lovable protagonist, the servant Balram, is in an extremely sticky situation because of his employer. He explains that India is a land of entrenched servitude, using the metaphor of the market rooster coop, which is tight-packed with birds terrified by the smells arising from the warm poultry carcases and entrails that lie about their cages. They know their fates, but they don't fight. They're trapped, they know it—and they accept it.
In this particular scene, his boss's wife has just left him, and Balram is comforting his drunk, sick employer on a roadside in Delhi:
I put my hand out and wiped the vomit from his lips, and cooed soothing words to him. It squeezed my heart to see him suffer like this—but where my genuine concern for him ended and where my self-interest began, I could not tell: no servant can ever tell what the motives of his heart are.
Do we loathe out masters behind a facade of love—or do we love them behind a facade of loathing?
We are made mysteries to ourselves by the Rooster Coop we are locked in.
The White Tiger is the first novel of the young Aravind Adiga, who's got the odd writing credit to his name. (Yes, that tone is one of envious adoration. I'm conflicted. Let's move on.)
The thing is, it's one of those books that isn't about glitteringly beautiful prose, but about a glittering story, fabulously told. That makes it a tough candidate for Mind-blowing lines, because the mind-blowing is in the whole book, not just its lines.
However, I couldn't live with myself if I didn't scream its virtues from the rooftops. So I wanted to give you a little excerpt with a lot of backstory.
Context is everything with Adiga. Everything.
Here, the lovable protagonist, the servant Balram, is in an extremely sticky situation because of his employer. He explains that India is a land of entrenched servitude, using the metaphor of the market rooster coop, which is tight-packed with birds terrified by the smells arising from the warm poultry carcases and entrails that lie about their cages. They know their fates, but they don't fight. They're trapped, they know it—and they accept it.
In this particular scene, his boss's wife has just left him, and Balram is comforting his drunk, sick employer on a roadside in Delhi:
I put my hand out and wiped the vomit from his lips, and cooed soothing words to him. It squeezed my heart to see him suffer like this—but where my genuine concern for him ended and where my self-interest began, I could not tell: no servant can ever tell what the motives of his heart are.
Do we loathe out masters behind a facade of love—or do we love them behind a facade of loathing?
We are made mysteries to ourselves by the Rooster Coop we are locked in.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Emotional rollercoaster
Boy oh boy. After seeing:
I began to doubt the likelihood that Gmail even employed anyone who'd ever marketed anything for any other reason than numbers, numbers, numbers! It was a terrible thought. The rollercoaster bottomed out pretty seriously and my entire life flashed before my eyes, along with, oh, my education, life intentions, and career. But then:
appeared and everything seemed okay again. The coaster turned upwards, and a pale-blue sky unfolded before me, gradually expanding to fill the entire universe.
I began to doubt the likelihood that Gmail even employed anyone who'd ever marketed anything for any other reason than numbers, numbers, numbers! It was a terrible thought. The rollercoaster bottomed out pretty seriously and my entire life flashed before my eyes, along with, oh, my education, life intentions, and career. But then:
appeared and everything seemed okay again. The coaster turned upwards, and a pale-blue sky unfolded before me, gradually expanding to fill the entire universe.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Playing fair in public
Okay, that's it. I've had it with these new wank words. I'm not saying that "content curation" isn't a thing; I'm not saying it's a wank. I am saying that it's not a word to be used in polite company with people who aren't consciously involved in filtering shit online. To do so is a wank.
Backstory: I just read a blog that had the tagline "Curated by [name]". A big-name blog by a big-name Internet Personality with a broad readership.
To me, this is the definition of unjustifiable. It's indecent. Come on, people. Play fair and pick your freaking audience.
Just as I wouldn't go to a family lunch and start talking about unique selling propositions and concept vocabularies, people who make it their business to filter information should not utter the words "content curation" within earshot of anyone who is not themselves a content curator, or asking about it specifically.
Why not? Because it's unbecoming.
It's embarrassing for us innocent bystanders. It's as if you're so proud of your intellectual and industry credentials that you're determined to show them to everyone, regardless of who they are or how intimidated that might make them feel. While you're at it, why not just take off your pants so we can see you wear Calvins? Or take off your Calvins so we can see your...
Anyway. You get my drift. If you're talking with me, we can talk about content curation, by all means. If you're talking with the general public, please: have a little decency. Keep your self-congratulations to yourself.
Backstory: I just read a blog that had the tagline "Curated by [name]". A big-name blog by a big-name Internet Personality with a broad readership.
To me, this is the definition of unjustifiable. It's indecent. Come on, people. Play fair and pick your freaking audience.
Just as I wouldn't go to a family lunch and start talking about unique selling propositions and concept vocabularies, people who make it their business to filter information should not utter the words "content curation" within earshot of anyone who is not themselves a content curator, or asking about it specifically.
Why not? Because it's unbecoming.
It's embarrassing for us innocent bystanders. It's as if you're so proud of your intellectual and industry credentials that you're determined to show them to everyone, regardless of who they are or how intimidated that might make them feel. While you're at it, why not just take off your pants so we can see you wear Calvins? Or take off your Calvins so we can see your...
Anyway. You get my drift. If you're talking with me, we can talk about content curation, by all means. If you're talking with the general public, please: have a little decency. Keep your self-congratulations to yourself.
Unexpected assailations
This recent Radiolab podcast dealt with two subjects dear to my heart: addiction and creativity.*
Of particular note was the idea that creative outputs exist as separate entities waiting for an outlet—a human—to make them tangible. (There's also a whole lot of stuff about those ideas being demanding, and that they will assail us when it suits them—but you'll have to listen to the podcast to get all that.)
On listening, I was gently scornful. It seemed too nice an idea, and one that divested us all too easily of our own responsibility in the creative process. But then how do you explain times that produce good work, work you don't ask for, and can't replicate at other times? Nights like this. When the produce looks like that:
This is a description of a country. And a key character. And a collective attitude. I'd give you more, but Jesus, I just started the thing, okay? There's a plot and some characters and other bits and pieces. Also, a beginning.
The point, really, is just that this isn't what I was hoping for when I pulled up the covers and turned out the light. Nothing like it.
*Extra-weird, because recently I overheard a friend say he thought humans had evolved to use drugs, at which I thought, "look around, people—we've evolved to create."
Of particular note was the idea that creative outputs exist as separate entities waiting for an outlet—a human—to make them tangible. (There's also a whole lot of stuff about those ideas being demanding, and that they will assail us when it suits them—but you'll have to listen to the podcast to get all that.)
On listening, I was gently scornful. It seemed too nice an idea, and one that divested us all too easily of our own responsibility in the creative process. But then how do you explain times that produce good work, work you don't ask for, and can't replicate at other times? Nights like this. When the produce looks like that:
This is a description of a country. And a key character. And a collective attitude. I'd give you more, but Jesus, I just started the thing, okay? There's a plot and some characters and other bits and pieces. Also, a beginning.The point, really, is just that this isn't what I was hoping for when I pulled up the covers and turned out the light. Nothing like it.
*Extra-weird, because recently I overheard a friend say he thought humans had evolved to use drugs, at which I thought, "look around, people—we've evolved to create."
Word of the day #8: moronoia
moronoia, n. a state of dull-mindedness. moronoid, adj.
From the Greek moros, dull, and noos, mind.
Psychologists around the mid-1800s were fond of referring to the mental state of both depressed and intellectually disabled patients as moronoiac. The public swiftly adopted the term to deride those who seemed silly or stupid.
Evidence is given in Scene Four of the stage play Bertie's Battle, by Englishwoman Winifred George. George's main character, Bertie, is described as suffering moronoia after being bowled out at the village cricket match:
[Bowler bowls; Bertie misses and Wicket Keeper catches the ball.]
Fielders: Cor!
Bertie: Egads!
Miss Finch: [aside to Miss Gibbons] Oh, Valerie. Do you think Bertie's got the flu? He's not playing nearly as well as he can!
Miss Gibbons: [rifling through purse in search of opera glasses; she finds them and peers across at the pitch] It looks more like moronoia to me, my dear.
Miss Finch: Oh! Do stop. He is smart, I tell you. And terribly clever.
Miss Gibbons: [regarding Miss Finch over the tops of her glasses with gravity and a raised eyebrow] Yes, dear. I'm quite sure he is.
Historians comment that the audience would have laughed heartily at this little scene, it being typical of the teatime humour of the era.
Today, of course, audiences would likely have died of moronoia induced by Miss George's tedious writing long before this point in the play was achieved.
From the Greek moros, dull, and noos, mind.
Psychologists around the mid-1800s were fond of referring to the mental state of both depressed and intellectually disabled patients as moronoiac. The public swiftly adopted the term to deride those who seemed silly or stupid.
Evidence is given in Scene Four of the stage play Bertie's Battle, by Englishwoman Winifred George. George's main character, Bertie, is described as suffering moronoia after being bowled out at the village cricket match:
[Bowler bowls; Bertie misses and Wicket Keeper catches the ball.]
Fielders: Cor!
Bertie: Egads!
Miss Finch: [aside to Miss Gibbons] Oh, Valerie. Do you think Bertie's got the flu? He's not playing nearly as well as he can!
Miss Gibbons: [rifling through purse in search of opera glasses; she finds them and peers across at the pitch] It looks more like moronoia to me, my dear.
Miss Finch: Oh! Do stop. He is smart, I tell you. And terribly clever.
Miss Gibbons: [regarding Miss Finch over the tops of her glasses with gravity and a raised eyebrow] Yes, dear. I'm quite sure he is.
Historians comment that the audience would have laughed heartily at this little scene, it being typical of the teatime humour of the era.
Today, of course, audiences would likely have died of moronoia induced by Miss George's tedious writing long before this point in the play was achieved.
Monday, April 4, 2011
...and other cliches
At a recent celebratory screening of the original King Kong,* I heard a television voiceover star and sometime game-show presenter give a speech composed entirely of cliches.
I'm not saying the concept was cliched, or his speech contained many cliches. I'm saying that that was all that was in it. They came out one after the other like rubber bullets from a crowd-numbing machine gun, with nothing in between.
It got me wondering if I could create something from cliches. The great thing about cliches -- their real advantage -- is that like horoscopes, they can (within a certain range) be construed to mean almost anything you like. Or I like. (The corollary being, of course, that they say absolutely nothing.) Can I do it? Can I make a para from cliches? Here goes.
The important thing to remember, on this of all days, is that nothing lasts forever: this, too, will pass. And in its wake, our hearts will go out to those who stood by us in our darkest hour, who defended our honour and stood firm in the face of adversity. In the meantime, let's give no quarter, roll with the punches, and take the cake. Lest we forget: there's no time like the present to seize the day.
Well, it's not a whole speech, but it's something. Actually, the main problem was remembering them (second only to risking tautology). Maybe what we need is a reference, Collection Of Cliches ... or to expose ourselves to more commercial television.
*Having seen the original King Kong, one struggles to imagine a screening that could be otherwise. The thing is a celebration in itself!
I'm not saying the concept was cliched, or his speech contained many cliches. I'm saying that that was all that was in it. They came out one after the other like rubber bullets from a crowd-numbing machine gun, with nothing in between.
It got me wondering if I could create something from cliches. The great thing about cliches -- their real advantage -- is that like horoscopes, they can (within a certain range) be construed to mean almost anything you like. Or I like. (The corollary being, of course, that they say absolutely nothing.) Can I do it? Can I make a para from cliches? Here goes.
The important thing to remember, on this of all days, is that nothing lasts forever: this, too, will pass. And in its wake, our hearts will go out to those who stood by us in our darkest hour, who defended our honour and stood firm in the face of adversity. In the meantime, let's give no quarter, roll with the punches, and take the cake. Lest we forget: there's no time like the present to seize the day.
Well, it's not a whole speech, but it's something. Actually, the main problem was remembering them (second only to risking tautology). Maybe what we need is a reference, Collection Of Cliches ... or to expose ourselves to more commercial television.
*Having seen the original King Kong, one struggles to imagine a screening that could be otherwise. The thing is a celebration in itself!
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