i lied
I updated and said that I hadn't been reading very much, but I forgot that I had. So here it is. I'm still working on Solidarity by TG Ash and By the Bomb's Early Light. I finished the Arabian Nights, The Door in the Hedge by Robin McKinley, Beauty by Robin McKinley, began the Djinn in the Nightengale's Ear (?) by AS Byatt, and am in the middle of some short stories by Evelyn Waugh and Nabokov. A friend recommended both of of the two last, and the first three came upon the merits of all of McKinley's stuff (not-so-guilty pleasure, even though I find so much of it in the children's section) and Posession, respectively.
It might not be a coincidence that I've been reading fairy tales lately. I actually went and reread a bunch of McKinley's books between school and moving. They now occupy a honored place on my shelves, above the fiction, along with MM Kaye and William MacLeod Raine- fetishes of mine, all. McKinley described fairy tales as essentially (necessarily) showing moral truth, which I could stand a little of recently. Meeting new people and getting used to a new area and finances and obligations has, of course, shaken up what I believe: look, she-who-wouldn't-compromise has taken a job in bureaucracy, is putting off her exciting plans for prudent ones, and is realizing more of her limits. There's nothing new or particularly insightful for others to get from this, but it sure does wonders for me personally. So the fairly tales are, generally, escapism (though in the case of Byatt it sure feels like high literature) and, more specifically for me, affirmation.
The Nabokov are hard to pick up, just because I know that when I do it's going to move me around. I'm still working my mind around "A Letter That Never Reached Russia". The three pages much as titled to an intimate back home conclude: "...my happiness will remain, in the moist reflections of a streetlamp, in the cautious bend of stone steps that descend into the canal's black waters, in the smiles of a dancing couple, in everything with which God so generously surrounds human loneliness."
All I've been doing recently is practicing loneliness, and sometimes practicing avoiding loneliness. I think it's working. I had been afraid I couldn't live alone, so I had all the more reason to start off that way. I don't think I'd want to get too good at it, but I appear to be suited. It's still the transitional period, though. We shall see. I just didn't expect it to feel good to be lonely: I'd thought the word only applied to the state of wishing one weren't alone.
I have the end-of-training test tomorrow, so bed it is (alone). Before I go, though: I saw two unexplored used book shops on my travels this weekend, and bought
1) Out of Africa and Shadows on the Grass by Isaac Dinesen/Karen Blixen
2) Assorted stories by Ray Bradbury
3) The Penguin Book of English Poetry
4) The Thinking Grain by Rebecca West (I do hope she's not more fascinating than her books, what with having HG Wells' love-child and all)
at a third, for 2$. I was informed that I could have had five for $2, also, which will precipate repeat business. I also saw the Gospel of Judas and an exhibit of John Lennon's prints, and a couple good friends from college, which was perfect.
It might not be a coincidence that I've been reading fairy tales lately. I actually went and reread a bunch of McKinley's books between school and moving. They now occupy a honored place on my shelves, above the fiction, along with MM Kaye and William MacLeod Raine- fetishes of mine, all. McKinley described fairy tales as essentially (necessarily) showing moral truth, which I could stand a little of recently. Meeting new people and getting used to a new area and finances and obligations has, of course, shaken up what I believe: look, she-who-wouldn't-compromise has taken a job in bureaucracy, is putting off her exciting plans for prudent ones, and is realizing more of her limits. There's nothing new or particularly insightful for others to get from this, but it sure does wonders for me personally. So the fairly tales are, generally, escapism (though in the case of Byatt it sure feels like high literature) and, more specifically for me, affirmation.
The Nabokov are hard to pick up, just because I know that when I do it's going to move me around. I'm still working my mind around "A Letter That Never Reached Russia". The three pages much as titled to an intimate back home conclude: "...my happiness will remain, in the moist reflections of a streetlamp, in the cautious bend of stone steps that descend into the canal's black waters, in the smiles of a dancing couple, in everything with which God so generously surrounds human loneliness."
All I've been doing recently is practicing loneliness, and sometimes practicing avoiding loneliness. I think it's working. I had been afraid I couldn't live alone, so I had all the more reason to start off that way. I don't think I'd want to get too good at it, but I appear to be suited. It's still the transitional period, though. We shall see. I just didn't expect it to feel good to be lonely: I'd thought the word only applied to the state of wishing one weren't alone.
I have the end-of-training test tomorrow, so bed it is (alone). Before I go, though: I saw two unexplored used book shops on my travels this weekend, and bought
1) Out of Africa and Shadows on the Grass by Isaac Dinesen/Karen Blixen
2) Assorted stories by Ray Bradbury
3) The Penguin Book of English Poetry
4) The Thinking Grain by Rebecca West (I do hope she's not more fascinating than her books, what with having HG Wells' love-child and all)
at a third, for 2$. I was informed that I could have had five for $2, also, which will precipate repeat business. I also saw the Gospel of Judas and an exhibit of John Lennon's prints, and a couple good friends from college, which was perfect.
posted by meg at 10:27 PM
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