Just another day...
Something curious happened this December. I started to read again. It's not that I could read, became functionally illiterate, and then was suddenly able to read again (although that would be funny). Rather, I started to read for pleasure again. I guess it had to do with me receiving as many books as I did for Christmas (three). So far I've read The Tyrant's Novel (decent social criticism), and Youth In Revolt (excellent dark satire), with The Writer and The World up next (the one I'm most excited for). Right now I'm reading Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung, which we'll return to in just a moment.
Back in the days of Grade 8 and my somewhat diminutive social status I read like a fiend - my hunger for the written was insatiable; I gobbled books up with fierce voracity. I loved to read. But when I hit high school and my group of friends - as well as social opportunities - grew, my hunger was saited. Instead of merely reading about wonderful real-life adventures, I was having them. I was almost always surrounded by one group of friends or another, or occupied with one of the many extracurricular activities I participated in. And despite Mr. Guthrie's best efforts, DEAR/USSR (Drop Everything And Read/Uninterrupted Sustained Silent Reading) really had no effect on me. I used that time to memorize whatever script I was working on.
I don't really know what made me want to start reading again. The books seem more like a catalyst than a reason: it was something that I had been building for awhile. It might have been Dr. Browning's constant exhortations that we always be reading a good book (or maybe it was my own desire to seem cultured in his presence). Good reading leads to good writing, afterall (as does clear thinking, hence my Logic course). Maybe it was my desire to write better - I had been in a rut of sorts since the end of Writer's Craft. I saw no reason to be writing as I had nothing meaningful to say. No wonderful observations about the world or reflections on life. But then, for whatever reason, I started to read again. Whatever it was, I'm glad it happened. I think more now; I question things I would have readily accepted before, and I try to look deeper. It's a wonderful feeling, and probably something I should have been experiencing since I arrived at McMaster. What am I here for, if not to learn how to think critically?
Anyhow, back to Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung. It's a collection of articles by the late Lester Bangs, a man who was (apparently) one of the most famous rock'n'roll critics to ever live. What he's writing isn't of interest to me, really - I know very few of the bands he mentions, and the commentary on the social phenomena of the 1960s and 1970s bores me - it's more how Bangs writes it. His style is... well, it's good. Despite my complete ignorance on the subjects he writes on he captivates my attention, drawing me in and making me want to read more. There's an intensity in his writing that can't be qualified - it's not exactly satire, nor is it complete cynicism. But there's an urgency there. The words need to be said and read and heard, and whatever it is that Bangs has to say - well, it needs to be communicated. That, and he's got Swift's "proper words in proper places" down to a tee. Psychotic Reactions may not be for everyone, but I love it. Read it; you'll thank yourself afterwards.
I have a Calculus quiz tomorrow. I studied 6 hours for it yesterday, although I'm not quite sure how. Where does the time go? Who knew that integration could have that wonderful timemachine effect, making the entire day pass by while I calculated the area under (x^2)(e^5x-1) on [4,11]. Marvellous thing, math. Still, those 6 hours don't feel like nearly enough, and I feel like I've fucked away enough of the day already. So I'll take my leave now, and get back to those sweet, sweet integrals.
Maybe more later. Tantilizing, I know.
Cheers.
Back in the days of Grade 8 and my somewhat diminutive social status I read like a fiend - my hunger for the written was insatiable; I gobbled books up with fierce voracity. I loved to read. But when I hit high school and my group of friends - as well as social opportunities - grew, my hunger was saited. Instead of merely reading about wonderful real-life adventures, I was having them. I was almost always surrounded by one group of friends or another, or occupied with one of the many extracurricular activities I participated in. And despite Mr. Guthrie's best efforts, DEAR/USSR (Drop Everything And Read/Uninterrupted Sustained Silent Reading) really had no effect on me. I used that time to memorize whatever script I was working on.
I don't really know what made me want to start reading again. The books seem more like a catalyst than a reason: it was something that I had been building for awhile. It might have been Dr. Browning's constant exhortations that we always be reading a good book (or maybe it was my own desire to seem cultured in his presence). Good reading leads to good writing, afterall (as does clear thinking, hence my Logic course). Maybe it was my desire to write better - I had been in a rut of sorts since the end of Writer's Craft. I saw no reason to be writing as I had nothing meaningful to say. No wonderful observations about the world or reflections on life. But then, for whatever reason, I started to read again. Whatever it was, I'm glad it happened. I think more now; I question things I would have readily accepted before, and I try to look deeper. It's a wonderful feeling, and probably something I should have been experiencing since I arrived at McMaster. What am I here for, if not to learn how to think critically?
Anyhow, back to Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung. It's a collection of articles by the late Lester Bangs, a man who was (apparently) one of the most famous rock'n'roll critics to ever live. What he's writing isn't of interest to me, really - I know very few of the bands he mentions, and the commentary on the social phenomena of the 1960s and 1970s bores me - it's more how Bangs writes it. His style is... well, it's good. Despite my complete ignorance on the subjects he writes on he captivates my attention, drawing me in and making me want to read more. There's an intensity in his writing that can't be qualified - it's not exactly satire, nor is it complete cynicism. But there's an urgency there. The words need to be said and read and heard, and whatever it is that Bangs has to say - well, it needs to be communicated. That, and he's got Swift's "proper words in proper places" down to a tee. Psychotic Reactions may not be for everyone, but I love it. Read it; you'll thank yourself afterwards.
I have a Calculus quiz tomorrow. I studied 6 hours for it yesterday, although I'm not quite sure how. Where does the time go? Who knew that integration could have that wonderful timemachine effect, making the entire day pass by while I calculated the area under (x^2)(e^5x-1) on [4,11]. Marvellous thing, math. Still, those 6 hours don't feel like nearly enough, and I feel like I've fucked away enough of the day already. So I'll take my leave now, and get back to those sweet, sweet integrals.
Maybe more later. Tantilizing, I know.
Cheers.