was it an act of contrition or some awful premonition
All right. I feel human again.
Well, I read A Clockwork Orange all of today. And realised around morning tea that it had rendered me completely mute. Because the first twenty or so pages are definitely hard going and, rather than my usual habit of skimming and speedreading, I was reading every single word in every single line. Which wasn't nearly as torturous as it sounds because omigod, Burgess! *moans*
Even through that sense of challenge and grappling with the language is the wondering admiration of how smoothly he gets across the meaning of each nadsat word by its context. So clever, so brave! Now I understand exactly why there is a Burroughs quote on the back of my glass of moloko copy. It's that exuberance of language, the sheer joy of linguistic innovation, Joycean and Burroughsian too. What is Burgess, anyway? *googles* Ha, Piscean. Damnit! Missed it by six days! Sokay, I claim you as honorary Aquarian cos you are simply that awesome. *clonks wif glass of moloko*
Still, it made me very quiet and turned in. Became a real struggle to talk, like if I opened my mouth I wouldn't know how to form words because all the language in my head was silent nadsat. And that worked to excellent effect because quite soon I was skimming and speedreading in my usual fashion, eventually not even pausing to mentally translate 'rookers' to 'arms'. Oh Burgess.
The innocence of Alex is so touching and somehow even more horrific than his bloodlust. And he's totally synaesthetic, isn't he? That timeless passage of him listening to the symphony while lying on his bed, the way he describes the sounds in colours and textures. Ah, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. Toooootally Syd Barrett. I love that he actually comes to the music. Eee. Alex, you lovely boy, you.
Never realised what a short novel it is. Just goes to show, doesn't it? That is the kind of novel I want to write. Perfectly controlled, wildly innovative, one short sharp shock of brilliance that stays with you forever. Maybe the next one.
As it was, I finished the book way before the hearing ended. Ergo the last hour was spent eyeing the Charles Shaughnessy Senior Counsel, thinking "man, you are so lucky that I ate barely anything on lunch and therefore am far too weak and lightheaded to do anything but glower at you ... cos otherwise, ohhhh ... a bit of the old ultra-violence ... pain! Lots of pain!" But hey, good money plus I got to come straight home.
Speaking of narratives, this song has pretty much consumed me over the few months. When I first heard it, it was too slow, too ponderous, too selfconscious. I just didn't get it. Totally paled in comparison to the reeling anarchy of The Curse Of Millhaven and the bloodsoaked profanity of Stagger Lee. Then I got the actual album and somehow it clicked. Suddenly the sheer brilliance of this slow ominous song unfurled itself, how it's such a perfect opening to an almost perfect album of gorgeous darkness. How the suspicion creeps upon you, listening in fixed horror, and becomes total certainty by the end of the song, enough so you want to flail and shriek "Noooooo, don't let him in, don't let him in!"
Ha. No. That was my initial reaction. Now I just gurgle a nice low attic laugh. ... this song to me is dark and silent as the moon ... oh Nick. Thou art incomparable.
Man, I don't want to work tomorrow. Kinda feel like I should stay home to chain myself to the laptop and, y'know, tape my wrists to the keyboard. Still, I'm not fussed. The motivation will return. Right now, it feels like I'm in Receive mode, thirsting books --- uh huh --- and films --- nothing at all in the cinemas I want to see --- and music --- three albums on order and my frequent searches in record stores turn up nothing --- and sponge, you will be squeezed dry.
I did watch Death At A Funeral yesterday. Was all right. Faintly amusing, beautifully shot, not nearly as profound as I'd somehow expected. But it's always wonderful to see Alan Tudyk. Even if, despite all the Whedon mythos, my first reaction to the sight of him is always to yell "Pain! Lots of pain!" Hrm. And holy fuck, does Rupert Graves look completely different to how I remember him from Different For Girls. God, how I loved that film.
And oh yes, I totally went and bought a Moloko album in the middle of reading said book. *shrug* If not now ...
Well, I read A Clockwork Orange all of today. And realised around morning tea that it had rendered me completely mute. Because the first twenty or so pages are definitely hard going and, rather than my usual habit of skimming and speedreading, I was reading every single word in every single line. Which wasn't nearly as torturous as it sounds because omigod, Burgess! *moans*
Even through that sense of challenge and grappling with the language is the wondering admiration of how smoothly he gets across the meaning of each nadsat word by its context. So clever, so brave! Now I understand exactly why there is a Burroughs quote on the back of my glass of moloko copy. It's that exuberance of language, the sheer joy of linguistic innovation, Joycean and Burroughsian too. What is Burgess, anyway? *googles* Ha, Piscean. Damnit! Missed it by six days! Sokay, I claim you as honorary Aquarian cos you are simply that awesome. *clonks wif glass of moloko*
Still, it made me very quiet and turned in. Became a real struggle to talk, like if I opened my mouth I wouldn't know how to form words because all the language in my head was silent nadsat. And that worked to excellent effect because quite soon I was skimming and speedreading in my usual fashion, eventually not even pausing to mentally translate 'rookers' to 'arms'. Oh Burgess.
The innocence of Alex is so touching and somehow even more horrific than his bloodlust. And he's totally synaesthetic, isn't he? That timeless passage of him listening to the symphony while lying on his bed, the way he describes the sounds in colours and textures. Ah, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. Toooootally Syd Barrett. I love that he actually comes to the music. Eee. Alex, you lovely boy, you.
Never realised what a short novel it is. Just goes to show, doesn't it? That is the kind of novel I want to write. Perfectly controlled, wildly innovative, one short sharp shock of brilliance that stays with you forever. Maybe the next one.
As it was, I finished the book way before the hearing ended. Ergo the last hour was spent eyeing the Charles Shaughnessy Senior Counsel, thinking "man, you are so lucky that I ate barely anything on lunch and therefore am far too weak and lightheaded to do anything but glower at you ... cos otherwise, ohhhh ... a bit of the old ultra-violence ... pain! Lots of pain!" But hey, good money plus I got to come straight home.
Speaking of narratives, this song has pretty much consumed me over the few months. When I first heard it, it was too slow, too ponderous, too selfconscious. I just didn't get it. Totally paled in comparison to the reeling anarchy of The Curse Of Millhaven and the bloodsoaked profanity of Stagger Lee. Then I got the actual album and somehow it clicked. Suddenly the sheer brilliance of this slow ominous song unfurled itself, how it's such a perfect opening to an almost perfect album of gorgeous darkness. How the suspicion creeps upon you, listening in fixed horror, and becomes total certainty by the end of the song, enough so you want to flail and shriek "Noooooo, don't let him in, don't let him in!"
Ha. No. That was my initial reaction. Now I just gurgle a nice low attic laugh. ... this song to me is dark and silent as the moon ... oh Nick. Thou art incomparable.
Man, I don't want to work tomorrow. Kinda feel like I should stay home to chain myself to the laptop and, y'know, tape my wrists to the keyboard. Still, I'm not fussed. The motivation will return. Right now, it feels like I'm in Receive mode, thirsting books --- uh huh --- and films --- nothing at all in the cinemas I want to see --- and music --- three albums on order and my frequent searches in record stores turn up nothing --- and sponge, you will be squeezed dry.
I did watch Death At A Funeral yesterday. Was all right. Faintly amusing, beautifully shot, not nearly as profound as I'd somehow expected. But it's always wonderful to see Alan Tudyk. Even if, despite all the Whedon mythos, my first reaction to the sight of him is always to yell "Pain! Lots of pain!" Hrm. And holy fuck, does Rupert Graves look completely different to how I remember him from Different For Girls. God, how I loved that film.
And oh yes, I totally went and bought a Moloko album in the middle of reading said book. *shrug* If not now ...