Ramblings in the late night

Dec 26, 2004 02:34

So far, in my short time on earth, I’ve read only a few truly moving epochal works. I mean truly read them, cover to cover. Last year, around this time, I read East of Eden by Steinback. This year, I read 100 Years of Solitude. I began that book in a Barnes and Nobles over my personal vacation that I took with my family after spring break had ended, in Myrtle Beach. But then, because I possess just the right amount of Judaism in me, I had to buy something for acting and bought two other books as well just to get the free shipping ( you would have done it as well, so don’t judge). Some books are great. Catcher in the Rye, Interpreter of Maladies or The Namesake, Middlesex, most if not all of Chucky P’s books. Others are exceptional. And that is the case of East of Eden and 100 Years of Solitude. They create these worlds, histories tied in with bits of realism and facts until the two become intertwined and it becomes indeterminable to separate the two. I can see how Marquez won the Nobel Prize for that book because it is breathtaking. Finishing that book ranks up there with actually seeing Mona Lisa smile or Jesus in the arms of Mary carved eternally, or wandering around time and the lost ruins of a city in the middle of a desert. Each one is an experience all unto itself, indescribable no matter how many words I try and use. With Steinback, I learned the art of weaving history into fiction while lacquering with a glaze of symbolism and character development. And with Marquez, I learned the true art of storytelling that up until this point I thought I had known. When the stories themselves, the timelines and characters with the same name become all tangled so that untangling the web of a black widow seems a less daunting and arduous task than the one set before me. I'm still not completely sure what I've read, but I’m entranced with the beauty of Remedios, I was moved to the point of tears with the tenderness of Aurelianos Segundo’s concubine, Petra Cotes, towards his wife. I wish I could do it justice, and make someone see the wonders of that book in the same light I’ve seen them. It makes me sad to think that I’ll probably surround myself with few who’ve read such great work as that. That is all I have to say

I love real poetry. I love real literature. I love real art. I love real architecture. I love real film.

I still have two paintings I’d like to paint before that visit. And one multimedia book at the least to make. Someone remind me to submit things to litmag before the deadline.

One more thing; though by no means is it my fault. Ever After is quite possibly one of the best movies in the world. Mm-hmm. That's right. You may just have to accept it. Or ask Mandy How to Deal. It was with this movie that a) I forgave Drew Barrymore for her past sins, b) nurtured a fondness for castles and the French, c) taught this cold person to believe in love again, d) so many other things. I know. It's weird. And my nephew is still the definition of precious. I'm tempted to submit him to Oxford Dictionary as a new definition and force them to recognize that of course I'm right. I'm tempted to give him the nickname of Little P, but it may be weird when he gets older, so for now it's a secret just between he and I (this one sounds the best orally). Or is it him and me (this one seems the best grammatically). Or he and me (this one just seems downright stupid). Oh dear my, my skills are slipping.
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