(no subject)
I'm leaving for NYC on Friday, but I wanted to record these snippets from some of the recent books I've devoured.
The Candle of Distant Earth
by Alan Dean Foster
"Born a street dog, he'd never had a master. Eking out an existence on the back streets and in the alleys of Chicago, he'd sometimes envied, in his primitive, uncognitive canine fashion, the pampered appearance of dogs on leashes and in cars. They smelled of food, rich and thick. Now he was able to understand why. They lived in houses or apartments with humans. As pets, who had masters. Having been granted intelligence, he knew he now could never suffer such an existence, no matter how cosseting. Not only had he seen too much and experienced too much: he knew too much.
What if, upon some still tenuous and possibly dubious return to Earth, his alien-imparted enhanced intelligence failed, leaving him once more as incapable of advanced cognition as the other mutts with whom he roamed the rough streets fighting and breeding, only dimly aware of the greater reality through which they moved? The prospect made him shudder. If it happened, would it occur instantly or as a slow, agonizing dimunition of consciousness? When it finally happened, would he even retain enough awareness to be conscious of the loss?"
"Ours is a civilized world, wherein the unforeseen is always a delight, because it is so uncommonly encountered."
"'Tepejk,' Sque pointed out almost affectionately. "Nice to see them again. Young K'eremu are often told to approach life like the tepejk.' A trio of tentacles rose and pointed. 'Notice the pitch and design of their limbs. They cannot back up; they can only drive, drive forward. To reverse course they must turn completely around. Their legs are designed to enable them to scour the sand that hides their food, tiny silicaceoud lifeforms.' Turning to her left, she beckoned for them to follow. 'Come. Home awaits.'"
"A thick appendage gestured meaningfully. 'It is the substance of knowledge that matters, not its source. One seeks profit wherever and however one can find it.'"
Sharp Objects
by Gillian Flynn
"When I was still in grammar school , maybe twelve, I wandered into a neighbor boy's hunting shed, a wood-planked shack where the animals were stripped and split. Ribbons of moist, pink flesh dangled from strings, waiting to be dried for jerky. The dirt floor was rusted with blood. The walls were covered with photographs of naked women. Some of the girls were spreading themselves wide, others were being held down and penetrated. One woman was tied up, her eyes glazed, breasts stretched and veined like grapes, as a man took her from behind. I could smell them all in the thick, gory air."
"Find a poor person in Wing Gap, and they'll almost always tell you they work at the farm, and so did their old man. On the breeding side, there are piglets to be clipped and crated, sows to be impregnated and penned, manure pits to be managed. The killing side's worse. Some employees load the pigs, forcing them down the gangway, where stunners await. Others grab the back legs, fasten the catch around them, release the animal to be lifted, squealing and kicking, upside down. They cut the throats with pointy slaughter knives, the blood splattering thick as paint onto the tile floors. Then on to the scalding tank. The constant screams - frantic, metallic squeals - drive most of the workers to wear earplugs, and they spend their days in a soundless rage. At night they drink and play music, loud. The local bar, Heelah's, serves nothing pork related, only chicken tenders, which are, presumably, processed by equally furious factory workers in some other crappy town."
"I am a cutter, you see. Also a snipper, a slicer, a carver, a jabber. I am a very special case. I have a purpose. My skin, you see, screams. It's covered with words - cook, cupcake, kitty, curls - as if a knife-wielding first grader learned to write on my flesh. I sometimes, but only sometimes, laugh."
"By eleven, I was compulsively writing down everything anyone said to me in a tiny blue notepad, a mini reporter already. Every phrase had to be captured on paper or it wasn't real, it slipped away."
"Normally, Richard was the kind of guy I disliked, someone born and raised plush: looks, charm, smarts, probably money. These men were never very interesting to me; they had no edges, and they were usually cowards. They instinctively fled any situation that might cause them embarrassment or awkwardness."
"'Sometimes if you let people do things to you, you're really doing it to them,' Amma said, pulling another Blow Pop from her pocket. Cherry. 'Know what I mean? If someone wants to do fucked-up things to you, and you let them, you're making them more fucked up. Then you have the control. As long as you don't go crazy.'"
Movie pick:
The Devil and Daniel Johnston
"God promises a safe landing but not a calm voyage."
After his last performance and after several weeks of being off his meds, Daniel Johnston got on a small plane with his father, who was piloting the aircraft. In the middle of the flight, Johnston talked about jumping out of the plane. His father told him that they didn't have any parachutes. Johnston then overpowered his father, stole the keys from the ignition and threw them out the window. He aimed the plane up, eventually causing it to spiral downward, out of his control. His father regained control just as they headed into a forest, nose first. Both of them survived the crash. On the way to the hospital, the family spotted this message on a marque outside of a church.
Movies just through the queue:
F is for Fake (Orson Welles' discusses charlatans, art and fakes)
Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room (the people behind the manipulations)
Bukowski: Born Into This (interviews with his hard and soft sides)
The Devil and Daniel Johnston (the music and the madness)
Is Walmart Good for America? (Frontline special -> China wins US loses)
Who Killed the Electric Car? (the manufacturers primarily, in a variety of ways)
Raising Arizona (very well narrated comedy about stealing a child)
FDR: A Presidency Revealed (two disc series about economy and war)
Murder by Death (comedic farce about detective novel detectives)
The Candle of Distant Earth
by Alan Dean Foster
"Born a street dog, he'd never had a master. Eking out an existence on the back streets and in the alleys of Chicago, he'd sometimes envied, in his primitive, uncognitive canine fashion, the pampered appearance of dogs on leashes and in cars. They smelled of food, rich and thick. Now he was able to understand why. They lived in houses or apartments with humans. As pets, who had masters. Having been granted intelligence, he knew he now could never suffer such an existence, no matter how cosseting. Not only had he seen too much and experienced too much: he knew too much.
What if, upon some still tenuous and possibly dubious return to Earth, his alien-imparted enhanced intelligence failed, leaving him once more as incapable of advanced cognition as the other mutts with whom he roamed the rough streets fighting and breeding, only dimly aware of the greater reality through which they moved? The prospect made him shudder. If it happened, would it occur instantly or as a slow, agonizing dimunition of consciousness? When it finally happened, would he even retain enough awareness to be conscious of the loss?"
"Ours is a civilized world, wherein the unforeseen is always a delight, because it is so uncommonly encountered."
"'Tepejk,' Sque pointed out almost affectionately. "Nice to see them again. Young K'eremu are often told to approach life like the tepejk.' A trio of tentacles rose and pointed. 'Notice the pitch and design of their limbs. They cannot back up; they can only drive, drive forward. To reverse course they must turn completely around. Their legs are designed to enable them to scour the sand that hides their food, tiny silicaceoud lifeforms.' Turning to her left, she beckoned for them to follow. 'Come. Home awaits.'"
"A thick appendage gestured meaningfully. 'It is the substance of knowledge that matters, not its source. One seeks profit wherever and however one can find it.'"
Sharp Objects
by Gillian Flynn
"When I was still in grammar school , maybe twelve, I wandered into a neighbor boy's hunting shed, a wood-planked shack where the animals were stripped and split. Ribbons of moist, pink flesh dangled from strings, waiting to be dried for jerky. The dirt floor was rusted with blood. The walls were covered with photographs of naked women. Some of the girls were spreading themselves wide, others were being held down and penetrated. One woman was tied up, her eyes glazed, breasts stretched and veined like grapes, as a man took her from behind. I could smell them all in the thick, gory air."
"Find a poor person in Wing Gap, and they'll almost always tell you they work at the farm, and so did their old man. On the breeding side, there are piglets to be clipped and crated, sows to be impregnated and penned, manure pits to be managed. The killing side's worse. Some employees load the pigs, forcing them down the gangway, where stunners await. Others grab the back legs, fasten the catch around them, release the animal to be lifted, squealing and kicking, upside down. They cut the throats with pointy slaughter knives, the blood splattering thick as paint onto the tile floors. Then on to the scalding tank. The constant screams - frantic, metallic squeals - drive most of the workers to wear earplugs, and they spend their days in a soundless rage. At night they drink and play music, loud. The local bar, Heelah's, serves nothing pork related, only chicken tenders, which are, presumably, processed by equally furious factory workers in some other crappy town."
"I am a cutter, you see. Also a snipper, a slicer, a carver, a jabber. I am a very special case. I have a purpose. My skin, you see, screams. It's covered with words - cook, cupcake, kitty, curls - as if a knife-wielding first grader learned to write on my flesh. I sometimes, but only sometimes, laugh."
"By eleven, I was compulsively writing down everything anyone said to me in a tiny blue notepad, a mini reporter already. Every phrase had to be captured on paper or it wasn't real, it slipped away."
"Normally, Richard was the kind of guy I disliked, someone born and raised plush: looks, charm, smarts, probably money. These men were never very interesting to me; they had no edges, and they were usually cowards. They instinctively fled any situation that might cause them embarrassment or awkwardness."
"'Sometimes if you let people do things to you, you're really doing it to them,' Amma said, pulling another Blow Pop from her pocket. Cherry. 'Know what I mean? If someone wants to do fucked-up things to you, and you let them, you're making them more fucked up. Then you have the control. As long as you don't go crazy.'"
Movie pick:
The Devil and Daniel Johnston
"God promises a safe landing but not a calm voyage."
After his last performance and after several weeks of being off his meds, Daniel Johnston got on a small plane with his father, who was piloting the aircraft. In the middle of the flight, Johnston talked about jumping out of the plane. His father told him that they didn't have any parachutes. Johnston then overpowered his father, stole the keys from the ignition and threw them out the window. He aimed the plane up, eventually causing it to spiral downward, out of his control. His father regained control just as they headed into a forest, nose first. Both of them survived the crash. On the way to the hospital, the family spotted this message on a marque outside of a church.
Movies just through the queue:
F is for Fake (Orson Welles' discusses charlatans, art and fakes)
Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room (the people behind the manipulations)
Bukowski: Born Into This (interviews with his hard and soft sides)
The Devil and Daniel Johnston (the music and the madness)
Is Walmart Good for America? (Frontline special -> China wins US loses)
Who Killed the Electric Car? (the manufacturers primarily, in a variety of ways)
Raising Arizona (very well narrated comedy about stealing a child)
FDR: A Presidency Revealed (two disc series about economy and war)
Murder by Death (comedic farce about detective novel detectives)