16 of 30

One of my professors, trying to illustrate a point, asked us to think about our DVD collections in comparison with our shoe collections, presumably expecting the former to be considerably larger than the latter. I couldn’t help laughing. Unless you count each Boston Legal DVD separately, my shoes far outnumber my movies and TV shows. And that’s the way (uh-huh uh-huh) I like it.

Sweater: The Limited
Pants: Express
Shoes: Alfani
Scarf: gift from Ecuador

What’s this? Black and brown together? Go ahead, call the fashion police. My affirmative defense (or mitigating factor, if you absolutely insist) is that as I got ready in the morning, I was still under the influence of Richard Wright’s Native Son, which we had to read for today’s class. If you want a disturbing, gruesome book, this is the one for you. It’s powerful and poignant, but certainly not for the faint of heart.

 

Love me, love my bookshelf

Probably the cutest OkMessage I’ve ever received:

“I am finding the way you write terrifyingly endearing and disarmingly clever; it would be a crime if law school took that away from you.

By the way, I think our embarrassingly bourgeois bookshelves would be besties.”

 

Poisoning the Passion

I never saw Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, nor did I ever have an interest in seeing it, but the following description by Christopher Hitchens sure does pique my curiosity:

In 2004, a soap-opera film about the death of Jesus was produced by an Australian fascist and ham actor named Mel Gibson. Mr. Gibson adheres to a crackpot and schismatic Catholic sect consisting mainly of himself and of his even more thuggish father, and has stated that it is a pity that his own dear wife if going to hell because she does not accept the correct sacraments. (This foul doom he calmly describes as “a statement from the chair.”) The doctrine of his own sect is explicitly anti-Semitic, and the movie sought tirelessly to lay the blame for the Crucifixion upon the Jews. In spite of this obvious bigotry, which did lead to criticism from some more cautious Christians, The Passion of the Christ was opportunistically employed by many “mainstream” churches as a box-office recruiting tool. At one of the ecumenical prepublicity events which he sponsored, Mr. Gibson defended his filmic farrago — which is also an exercise in sadomasochistic homoeroticism starring a talentless lead actor who was apparently born in Iceland or Minnesota — as being based on the reports of “eyewitnesses.”

Excerpted from Christopher Hitchens, God is not Great (2007, pp. 110-11). Much gratitude to Nick for presenting me with this wonderful and thought-provoking holiday gift.

 

The wisdom of Rochefoucauld.

I’ve always struggled with trying to reconcile the two well-known maxims about separation (for lack of a better word, since they could apply not only to relationships and friendships, but to one’s attitude toward inanimate objects or experiences as well.) It’s either “Absence makes the heart grow fonder” or the considerably less optimistic “Out of sight, out of mind.” Which one is it? I would like to think it’s the former, but the realist in me leans towards the latter.

Fortunately, Rochefoucauld has the answer:

“L’absence diminue les mediocres passions et augmente les grandes, comme le vent eteint les bougies et allume le feu.” (Absence diminishes little passions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans a fire.)

Wise man.

 

Sound advice from 1847

A great quote from Thackeray’s Vanity Fair:

Be cautious then, young ladies; be wary how you engage. Be shy of loving frankly; never tell all you feel, or (a better way still), feel very little. See the consequences of being prematurely honest and confiding, and mistrust yourselves and everybody. Get yourselves married as they do in France, where the lawyers are the bridesmaids and confidantes. At any rate, never have any feelings which may make you uncomfortable, or make any promises which you cannot at any required moment command and withdraw.

Amen.

 

The presence of this absence

Since I was just on the subject of literature, here’s a link to Shane’s fab blog, which he decided to keep updating even after finishing the qualifying exams that inspired the blog in the first place:

http://mostawesomestsentences.tumblr.com

I, too, would vote for a gnome.

 

Dangerous nature of closed, absolutist belief systems

Although I frequently refer to The Three Musketeers as my all-time favorite book, in all honesty, it is incredibly difficult to single out any particular book as my favorite. I dearly love anything and everything by Dumas; Oscar Wilde’s genius is undeniable; and, given my love of theatre, how can I dismiss Othello and Cyrano de Bergerac? So many choices.

As far as my least favorite book, on the other hand, we seem to have a winner.

Upon Lawyer Boy’s recommendation, I purchased Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses at some point last summer and started reading it in September, I believe. Nine months and countless attempts later, I’m still on page 237 (out of 500-something pages total). I tried incredibly hard to enjoy it — after all, when forced to read something in class that I wouldn’t normally read on my own, I almost inevitably succeeded in finding one way or another to appreciate the work (even if it was poetic in nature, and we all know that I tend to dislike poetry). But after numerous endeavors to read The Satanic Verses in all kinds of settings, mindsets, and with all sorts of reference materials at my disposal, I simply give up. This is a book that I cannot see myself enjoying.

Why is that, I wonder? I cannot quite place a finger on it. The language is not overly complicated and the plot not overly convoluted. I have certainly read works that were considerably more difficult. To be sure, I’m by no means an expert when it comes to Muslim and Hindu cultures, but I’m familiar with both; moreover, quite interested in them. Hence, it’s not the foreign element of the book that sours my literary experience. Is it the identity disorder of the protagonist? No; in fact, I frequently find off-kilter characters to be quite charming. Is it the stream of consciousness writing? The abundance of magical elements that Rushdie blends with reality?

Whatever the case may be, I am quite certain that I will have considerable difficulties trying to finish this book. If I ever finish it, that is.

I may try my luck with Ulysses instead.