New year, again...
Remarkably 2006 was a successful if turbulent year for me. Hopefully it's ended a spell of years that's seen me lose jobs, houses, friends dying and all that sort of shit. In a crawling from the wreckage kind of way, its been a good one. Now I'm happily munching away on the ideas of dead men and seem remarkably happy for it!
Resolutions? Of course, but I've realised the less you say and the more you do, dreams sometimes come true so, I'm going to stay schtum on that one.
As usual, some things that I like for you all...
In the spring of her twenty-second year, Sumire fell in love for the first time in her life. An intense love, a veritable tornado sweeping across the plains - flattening everying in its path, tossing things up in the air, ripping them to shreds, crushing them to bits. The tornado's intensity doesn't abate for a second as it blasts across the ocean, laying waste to Angkor Wat, incinerating an Indian jungle, tigers and all, transforming itself into a Persian desert sandstorm, burying an exotic fortress city under a sea of sand. In short, a love of truly monumental proportions. The person she fell in love with happened to be seventeen years older than Sumire. And was married. And, I should add, was a woman. This is where it all began, and where it all wound up. [l] Almost. [/]
The opening paragraph to Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami. I love that opening.
----y----
The memory of Father came back to her. Ever since she had seen him retreat from those twelve-year-old boys she often imagined him in this situation: he is on a sinking ship; there are only a few lifeboats and there isn't room for everyone; there is a furious stampede on deck. At first Father rushes along with the others, but when he sees how they all push and shove, ready to trample each other under foot, and a wild-eyed woman strikes him with her fist because he is in her way, he suddenly stops and steps aside. And in the end he merely watches the overloaded lifeboats as they are slowly lowered amid shouts and curses, towards the raging waves.
What name to give this attitude? Cowardice? No. Cowards are afraid of dying and will fight to survive. Nobility? undoubtedly, if he had acted out of regard for his fellows. But Agnes did not believe this was his motive. What was it then? She couldn't say. Only one thing seemed certain: on a sinking ship where it was necessary to fight in order to board a lifeboat, Father would have been condemned in advance.
Yes, that much was certain. The question that arises is this: had Father hated the people on the ship, just as she now hates the motorcyclist and the man who mocked her because she covered her ears? No, Agnes cannot imagine that Father was capable of hatred. Hate traps us by binding us too tightly to our adversary. This is the obscenity of war: the intimacy of two soldiers who, eye to eye, bayonet each other. Agnes was sure: it was precisely this kind of intimacy that her father found repugnant. The melee on the ship filled him with such disgust that he preferred to drown. The physical contact with peoplewho struck and trampled and killed one another seemed far worse to him than a solitary death in the purity of the waters.
A passage from Immortality by Milan Kundera. I would go down with Agnes' father.
---z---
And some of Gustav Dore's work. I love this stuff...
Remarkably 2006 was a successful if turbulent year for me. Hopefully it's ended a spell of years that's seen me lose jobs, houses, friends dying and all that sort of shit. In a crawling from the wreckage kind of way, its been a good one. Now I'm happily munching away on the ideas of dead men and seem remarkably happy for it!
Resolutions? Of course, but I've realised the less you say and the more you do, dreams sometimes come true so, I'm going to stay schtum on that one.
As usual, some things that I like for you all...
In the spring of her twenty-second year, Sumire fell in love for the first time in her life. An intense love, a veritable tornado sweeping across the plains - flattening everying in its path, tossing things up in the air, ripping them to shreds, crushing them to bits. The tornado's intensity doesn't abate for a second as it blasts across the ocean, laying waste to Angkor Wat, incinerating an Indian jungle, tigers and all, transforming itself into a Persian desert sandstorm, burying an exotic fortress city under a sea of sand. In short, a love of truly monumental proportions. The person she fell in love with happened to be seventeen years older than Sumire. And was married. And, I should add, was a woman. This is where it all began, and where it all wound up. [l] Almost. [/]
The opening paragraph to Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami. I love that opening.
----y----
The memory of Father came back to her. Ever since she had seen him retreat from those twelve-year-old boys she often imagined him in this situation: he is on a sinking ship; there are only a few lifeboats and there isn't room for everyone; there is a furious stampede on deck. At first Father rushes along with the others, but when he sees how they all push and shove, ready to trample each other under foot, and a wild-eyed woman strikes him with her fist because he is in her way, he suddenly stops and steps aside. And in the end he merely watches the overloaded lifeboats as they are slowly lowered amid shouts and curses, towards the raging waves.
What name to give this attitude? Cowardice? No. Cowards are afraid of dying and will fight to survive. Nobility? undoubtedly, if he had acted out of regard for his fellows. But Agnes did not believe this was his motive. What was it then? She couldn't say. Only one thing seemed certain: on a sinking ship where it was necessary to fight in order to board a lifeboat, Father would have been condemned in advance.
Yes, that much was certain. The question that arises is this: had Father hated the people on the ship, just as she now hates the motorcyclist and the man who mocked her because she covered her ears? No, Agnes cannot imagine that Father was capable of hatred. Hate traps us by binding us too tightly to our adversary. This is the obscenity of war: the intimacy of two soldiers who, eye to eye, bayonet each other. Agnes was sure: it was precisely this kind of intimacy that her father found repugnant. The melee on the ship filled him with such disgust that he preferred to drown. The physical contact with peoplewho struck and trampled and killed one another seemed far worse to him than a solitary death in the purity of the waters.
A passage from Immortality by Milan Kundera. I would go down with Agnes' father.
---z---
And some of Gustav Dore's work. I love this stuff...
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
I love Dore too, this is a good site for images if you haven't already seen it - http://dore.artpassions.net/
Those are nice extracts, I love both of those books.