chou-chou
i have been lazier than i'd realized with ideas lately; it's been a long time since i've read a book that had something really to say. something i hadn't expected, in any case. and a good bit of arrogance is thankfully out of my system at the moment. i knew it was in there. the bitter flavor of cynicism is hard to overlook. but it's such a relief, all the same, to discover that you're really not as clever as you hope you aren't.
what this really means, of course, is that i feel all the more like the callow-youth sidekick and i suspect that the hero in question isn't teaching any more undergrad classes for the immediate future. damn, and i hate being all teacher's-pettish. i'd say it's against nature but i've still got the dark ages on the brain, and it's not quite like that.
the subject in question for those interested is the name of the rose, umberto eco, marjorie woods, and embarrassment at writing book reports at some madrugada hour during vacation. (to whom it may concern: any form of bibliophobia will pretty much result in me blaming you for being bored and then feeling sorry for blaming you for things that aren't your fault. you are warned.) itself, the book somehow started with modest pretexts and compounded them gracefully into a kind of unexpected grandeur, filling the kinds of spaces i'd forgotten a novel could fill. really, it was conceived beautifully and completely, and the lack of aesthetic writing often seems like a comment itself, a structure following its purpose.
the possibility that the faults visible in the narrative are fully intentional strategic plot devices is . . . downright conniving, really. too much hack work and indulgence went into forming my expectations. but reading only the grand works leaves no room for the rest-- the plain, the understated, the new, the overlooked, the popular and unpopular-- that gives at least the illusion of finding a unique perspective. maybe i just feel more adequate when the bones of the thing are clearly visible to my evaluation. being anticipated too well will always feel like being unnecessary to the situation myself.
why apologize so much, and for what? it's hard to tell and my eyes feel old. the metronomic humors of my defiance . . . they'll sway with all their accustomed rhythm. for tonight, it is enough.
what this really means, of course, is that i feel all the more like the callow-youth sidekick and i suspect that the hero in question isn't teaching any more undergrad classes for the immediate future. damn, and i hate being all teacher's-pettish. i'd say it's against nature but i've still got the dark ages on the brain, and it's not quite like that.
the subject in question for those interested is the name of the rose, umberto eco, marjorie woods, and embarrassment at writing book reports at some madrugada hour during vacation. (to whom it may concern: any form of bibliophobia will pretty much result in me blaming you for being bored and then feeling sorry for blaming you for things that aren't your fault. you are warned.) itself, the book somehow started with modest pretexts and compounded them gracefully into a kind of unexpected grandeur, filling the kinds of spaces i'd forgotten a novel could fill. really, it was conceived beautifully and completely, and the lack of aesthetic writing often seems like a comment itself, a structure following its purpose.
the possibility that the faults visible in the narrative are fully intentional strategic plot devices is . . . downright conniving, really. too much hack work and indulgence went into forming my expectations. but reading only the grand works leaves no room for the rest-- the plain, the understated, the new, the overlooked, the popular and unpopular-- that gives at least the illusion of finding a unique perspective. maybe i just feel more adequate when the bones of the thing are clearly visible to my evaluation. being anticipated too well will always feel like being unnecessary to the situation myself.
why apologize so much, and for what? it's hard to tell and my eyes feel old. the metronomic humors of my defiance . . . they'll sway with all their accustomed rhythm. for tonight, it is enough.