(no subject)
I'd just finished reading Nabokov's Lolita, but more pressingly I'd just finished reading the author's "On a Book Entitled Lolita" at the end of the novel, written a year after its publication. I was lying on the couch, feeling very insulted by Nabokov (which, though unable to undermine my love for delightful Book 1, cemented my dislike of Book 2. Get an editor, jerk.) I wanted to compose some eloquent criticism of it in an email to my esteemed colleague Elizabeth Pohlig, and little kitty was at the front door crying to get out. I told her many times to shut up (she doesn't under English) and considered throwing a pillow at her, because last night, while I mauled her in a friendly manner, she scratched my mother fucking eye. It was a miracle she didn't actually get my eye, but the skin under it is slightly red and swollen.
I finally let her out of doors only because I was stepping out, and she proceeded to walk close circles around me, on my feet, and get her small twittering body in the way of my agitated pacing as I composed responses I would never write about a dead author's arrogance, and considered giving the cat a nice little kick, when the realization splashed over me that a beef I harbored against Nabakov was his assertion that good literature should inspire sympathy for the characters, which I agreed, but he didn't seem to have sympathy or understanding for people, granted lesser mortals, who want fiction to have a moral point. He didn't even diplomatically say it, I felt that if he could his ghost would stretch out from the page and slit the throat of house vives who join book clubs and people without the exposure or presence of mind to understand anything beyond hackneyed social graces. And lo, did I see my lack of sympathy for little kitty. Not but a few months ago she accompanied me as I stalked the neighborhood for hours on end while I looked for my wayward cat Charlie. I'm not a cat person, but I love mine, who, when he wakes and with half closed eyes to greet me when I come home, or is curled up asleep on the chair in my bedroom, is the most beaufitul cat that ever was, and anyone who disagrees with me probably only likes moralistic fiction. But little kitty probably wanted to have me romp with her, and that I haven't done so since must be disappointing. And she probably scratched near my eye because my actions toward her might be as inconsistent as hers. She is often unceremoniously thrown out of my room because she does the things which little cats do, which are always interfering and often destructive to things. Her favorite activity is tearing off the fabric which covers the bottom of my box spring. Well, the fabric used to. Now it just hangs in tatters.
I finally let her out of doors only because I was stepping out, and she proceeded to walk close circles around me, on my feet, and get her small twittering body in the way of my agitated pacing as I composed responses I would never write about a dead author's arrogance, and considered giving the cat a nice little kick, when the realization splashed over me that a beef I harbored against Nabakov was his assertion that good literature should inspire sympathy for the characters, which I agreed, but he didn't seem to have sympathy or understanding for people, granted lesser mortals, who want fiction to have a moral point. He didn't even diplomatically say it, I felt that if he could his ghost would stretch out from the page and slit the throat of house vives who join book clubs and people without the exposure or presence of mind to understand anything beyond hackneyed social graces. And lo, did I see my lack of sympathy for little kitty. Not but a few months ago she accompanied me as I stalked the neighborhood for hours on end while I looked for my wayward cat Charlie. I'm not a cat person, but I love mine, who, when he wakes and with half closed eyes to greet me when I come home, or is curled up asleep on the chair in my bedroom, is the most beaufitul cat that ever was, and anyone who disagrees with me probably only likes moralistic fiction. But little kitty probably wanted to have me romp with her, and that I haven't done so since must be disappointing. And she probably scratched near my eye because my actions toward her might be as inconsistent as hers. She is often unceremoniously thrown out of my room because she does the things which little cats do, which are always interfering and often destructive to things. Her favorite activity is tearing off the fabric which covers the bottom of my box spring. Well, the fabric used to. Now it just hangs in tatters.