The weekend is over once again. I have promised some Jonathan Safran Foer to ease the pain so here it is. I was midway through posting another, probably more interesting article of his but it was too long. So this will have to do instead.
Still think its good.
The Sixth Borough
By JONATHAN SAFRAN FOER
Published: September 17, 2004
Once upon a time, New York City had a Sixth Borough. You won't read about it in any of the history books, because there's nothing - save for the circumstantial evidence in Central Park - to prove that it was there at all. Which makes its existence very easy to dismiss. Especially in a time like this one, when the world is so unpredictable, and it takes all of one's resources just to get by in the present tense. But even though most people will say they have no time or reason to believe in the Sixth Borough, and don't believe in the Sixth Borough, they will still use the word "believe.''
The Sixth Borough was an island, separated from Manhattan by a thin body of water, whose narrowest crossing happened to equal the world's long jump record, such that exactly one person on earth could go from Manhattan to the Sixth Borough without getting wet. A huge party was made of the yearly leap. Bagels were strung from island to island on special spaghetti, samosas were bowled at baguettes, Greek salads were thrown like confetti. The children of New York captured fireflies in glass jars, which they floated between the boroughs. The bugs would slowly asphyxiate, flickering rapidly for their last few minutes of life. If it was timed right, the river shimmered as the jumper crossed it.
When the time finally came, the long jumper would run the entire width of Manhattan. New Yorkers rooted him on from opposite sides of the street, from the windows of their apartments and offices, from the branches of the trees. And when he leapt, New Yorkers cheered from the banks of both Manhattan and the Sixth Borough, cheering on the jumper, and cheering on each other. For those few moments that the jumper was in the air, every New Yorker felt capable of flight. Or perhaps "suspension" is a better word. Because what was so inspiring about the leap was not how the jumper got from one borough to the other, but how he stayed between them for so long.
One year - many, many years ago - the end of the jumper's big toe touched the surface of the water and caused a little ripple. People gasped, as the ripple traveled out from the Sixth Borough back toward Manhattan, knocking the jars of fireflies against one another like wind chimes.
"You must have gotten a bad start!" a Manhattan councilman hollered from across the water.
The jumper nodded no, more confused than ashamed.
"You had the wind in your face," a Sixth Borough councilman suggested, offering a towel for the jumper's foot.
The jumper shook his head.
"Perhaps he ate too much for lunch," said one onlooker to another.
"Or maybe he's past his prime," said another, who'd brought his kids to watch the leap.
"I bet his heart wasn't in it," said another. "You just can't expect to jump that far without some serious feeling."
"No," the jumper said to all of the speculation. "None of that's right. I jumped just fine."
The revelation traveled across the onlookers like the ripple caused by the toe, and when the mayor of New York City spoke it aloud, everyone sighed in agreement: "The Sixth Borough is moving."
Each year after, a few inches at a time, the Sixth Borough receded from New York. One year, the long jumper's entire foot got wet, and after a number of years, his shin, and after many, many years - so many years that no one could even remember what it was like to celebrate without anxiety - the jumper had to reach out his arms and grab at the Sixth Borough fully extended, and then, sadly, he couldn't touch it at all. The eight bridges between Manhattan and the Sixth Borough strained and finally crumbled, one at a time, into the water. The tunnels were pulled too thin to hold anything at all.
The phone and electrical lines snapped, requiring Sixth Boroughers to revert to old-fashioned technologies, most of which resembled children's toys: they used magnifying glasses to reheat their carry-out; they folded important documents into paper airplanes and threw them from one office building window into another; those fireflies in glass jars, which had once been used merely for decorative purposes during the festivals of the leap, were now found in every room of every apartment, taking the place of artificial light.
The very same engineers who dealt with the Leaning Tower of Pisa were brought over to assess the situation.
"It wants to go," they said.
"Well, what can you say about that?" the mayor of New York asked.
To which they replied, "There's nothing to say about that."
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Blue Nights
So maybe its not over yet, but probably yes.
Doesn't it feel nice to feel blue. Calls for introspection, reflection, some contemplation and all other words related to melancholic thinking.
We feel better now though, at home, in familiar surroundings.
What I want to do is list some of the best beginnings of books. Those first sentences that just refuse to leave one's head even once the book has been completed and is back on the shelf.
Like Mersault: "My maman died yesterday, or the day before. I can't remember."
I can't really remember the exact words either but they penetrated that innermost, unspoken, undiscribable self.
As I am reading Capote I will begin with this.
"The village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call 'out there'."
Possibly not the most memorable opening, but in my humble opinion I would say there is definitely some darkness coming our way.
People read books all the time but are too lazy to talk about them, review them or give their opinion. Maybe because there is none and a book has been read so that having read it is a topic of conversation. So, come on. If anybody that reads this has actually read a book lately: for Christ's sake, say something.
More busy times ahead so even less of me. Mr. Foer will make his appearance shortly.
M.M.
Doesn't it feel nice to feel blue. Calls for introspection, reflection, some contemplation and all other words related to melancholic thinking.
We feel better now though, at home, in familiar surroundings.
What I want to do is list some of the best beginnings of books. Those first sentences that just refuse to leave one's head even once the book has been completed and is back on the shelf.
Like Mersault: "My maman died yesterday, or the day before. I can't remember."
I can't really remember the exact words either but they penetrated that innermost, unspoken, undiscribable self.
As I am reading Capote I will begin with this.
"The village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call 'out there'."
Possibly not the most memorable opening, but in my humble opinion I would say there is definitely some darkness coming our way.
People read books all the time but are too lazy to talk about them, review them or give their opinion. Maybe because there is none and a book has been read so that having read it is a topic of conversation. So, come on. If anybody that reads this has actually read a book lately: for Christ's sake, say something.
More busy times ahead so even less of me. Mr. Foer will make his appearance shortly.
M.M.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Night-blogging
Here I am. Music in one ear mixing with the wine in the head. The other side suffers from a left eye-lid that is permanently asleep. I don't know much about what happens on the other side.
Night-blogging. And thinking about publishing in China. The future, i keep saying it.
As my blogs get worse and my right side (of the head) is giving in to the jazz I will try to rectify the problem of 'the present.'
To make the present a little more worthwhile - at least to those of you that don't have a choice but to read it - I promise to put some unofficial blogs of Jonathan Safran Foer.
I will of course choose their exact and precise timing of publication with great precision, as they are my only real source of quality. The blogs will actually only be publications of his that are freely available on the Internet. Reading it should therefore not necessarily endanger you.
Night-blogging. Yeah.
The beat has changed and that kind of thing just happens to be possible. Next on my reading list will probably have to be "In Cold Blood: A True Account of Multiple Murder and its Consequences" by Truman Capote. The hype around the film is inevitable. Philip Seymour Hoffman is old time classic at the invisible/instrumental, often geek, loser, etc. character. And so I have been swayed. Explore another narrative: that of the murderer. Pioneer Capote. I am sure something will be discovered.
The next blog promises to be of greater quality as it won't be written by me.
The night reckons.
M.M.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Friday, February 17, 2006
A Contribution
At long last I will post the first contribution. It probably shouldn't be called 'a contribution, considering that I threatened to pour endless amounts of black sambucca(?) down Will's throat, if he wouldn't let me post his story.
The end of another week, which means even less time.
Here it is.
The Worst News Drove Him Round the Beyond
By Will Dowling
Mirror, signal, manoeuvre and the car moved off easily in first gear. Rodney shifted in the passenger seat, adjusted his instructor’s mirror and said:
“Good.”
I drove on.
Rodney said, “Ok, now just follow the road ahead and take a left at the end.”
I followed the road ahead and took a left at the end. We drove past a chip shop, a newsagents, a post office, three fat women pushing prams in a procession of obese poverty, a gang of idiots standing on the pavement in baggy clothes and hooded tops smoking and gesticulating and proving nothing to themselves and the world. The sky spread grey carpet behind black tower blocks. Rodney said something about the weather.
“Yes, miserable,” I murmured.
We approached a roundabout.
“Turn right at the roundabout taking the third exit; the third exit.” said Rodney.
I turned right at the roundabout taking the third exit; the third exit. I didn’t really want to drive. It angered me.
“Yes, my wife’s six months pregnant now,” said Rodney, continuing a conversation that had never started.
“Really? That’s great,” I said, not interested, but pretending to be.
I drove past a nun, a homeless girl and two policemen. The rain started. I flicked on the windscreen wipers on slow to middling. I approached traffic lights and braked the car. We drove slowly up behind a builder’s white van. Written in big black letters over the big back doors of the van were the words: Allan Poe and Sons, Builders and Plumbers. Life felt dead.
The lights turned orange, green and I continued. I slipped the car into second, into third. The builder’s white van turned left and disappeared down another sad street. Ahead of me lay straight, characterless road.
“Now use your fourth gear; it’s an economical gear,” said Rodney.
I used my fourth gear; it’s an economical gear. I drove past a thin man holding a small tree, past a group of depressed school children, past an old lady in a wheelchair being pushed by a hairy youth, past a weathered busker playing a beaten guitar, past two men in suits walking in synchronicity and talking to each other without looking at each other. My head ached.
Then Rodney’s phone rang.
“Hello?” answered Rodney.
Silence hung in the car, in the sealed in air.
“No,” said Rodney in a small voice.
Quiet returned. I drove on. The car trundled in the slick falling rain.
“No,” repeated Rodney in his tiny voice.
I coughed and stared at the road ahead, the white lines just rolling on, rolling on.
“Pull over. Pull the car over,” said Rodney.
I pulled over. I pulled the car over. Rodney got out of the car. He stood on the edge of the pavement in front of the bonnet. His expression looked strange. He gazed up at the sky and smiled. A huge red lorry thundered along and he stepped out in front of it and exploded all over the road.
The end of another week, which means even less time.
Here it is.
The Worst News Drove Him Round the Beyond
By Will Dowling
Mirror, signal, manoeuvre and the car moved off easily in first gear. Rodney shifted in the passenger seat, adjusted his instructor’s mirror and said:
“Good.”
I drove on.
Rodney said, “Ok, now just follow the road ahead and take a left at the end.”
I followed the road ahead and took a left at the end. We drove past a chip shop, a newsagents, a post office, three fat women pushing prams in a procession of obese poverty, a gang of idiots standing on the pavement in baggy clothes and hooded tops smoking and gesticulating and proving nothing to themselves and the world. The sky spread grey carpet behind black tower blocks. Rodney said something about the weather.
“Yes, miserable,” I murmured.
We approached a roundabout.
“Turn right at the roundabout taking the third exit; the third exit.” said Rodney.
I turned right at the roundabout taking the third exit; the third exit. I didn’t really want to drive. It angered me.
“Yes, my wife’s six months pregnant now,” said Rodney, continuing a conversation that had never started.
“Really? That’s great,” I said, not interested, but pretending to be.
I drove past a nun, a homeless girl and two policemen. The rain started. I flicked on the windscreen wipers on slow to middling. I approached traffic lights and braked the car. We drove slowly up behind a builder’s white van. Written in big black letters over the big back doors of the van were the words: Allan Poe and Sons, Builders and Plumbers. Life felt dead.
The lights turned orange, green and I continued. I slipped the car into second, into third. The builder’s white van turned left and disappeared down another sad street. Ahead of me lay straight, characterless road.
“Now use your fourth gear; it’s an economical gear,” said Rodney.
I used my fourth gear; it’s an economical gear. I drove past a thin man holding a small tree, past a group of depressed school children, past an old lady in a wheelchair being pushed by a hairy youth, past a weathered busker playing a beaten guitar, past two men in suits walking in synchronicity and talking to each other without looking at each other. My head ached.
Then Rodney’s phone rang.
“Hello?” answered Rodney.
Silence hung in the car, in the sealed in air.
“No,” said Rodney in a small voice.
Quiet returned. I drove on. The car trundled in the slick falling rain.
“No,” repeated Rodney in his tiny voice.
I coughed and stared at the road ahead, the white lines just rolling on, rolling on.
“Pull over. Pull the car over,” said Rodney.
I pulled over. I pulled the car over. Rodney got out of the car. He stood on the edge of the pavement in front of the bonnet. His expression looked strange. He gazed up at the sky and smiled. A huge red lorry thundered along and he stepped out in front of it and exploded all over the road.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Time
It has been a while. Time has flown by.
I don't really have the time for this, which probably has something to do with it. Yet I don't really do anything particularly productive. I am not saying that I am unproductive, but rather that unless I put all my efforts in, I tend steam along like a lethargic, lazy train.
This is an abrupt eruption of creativity. Don't know how it will end. It feels like I have finally managed to actually pick up the phone and attempt to make a call, after having been meaning to all night. Tuttt...This here, now, this place, this time, this moment: this is me dialing.
The outcome determines who or what answers.
This is what I call communication.
Ask me not what I am talking about.
Stuart: A life backwards was quite good. Finished it a while ago but obviously haven't thought about it a great deal. I mean I have in a way, whilst walking down the road, or maybe while washing my feet in the shower and eating my dinner. But I haven't really analyzed it the way Dr.Z probably would have. (Who by the way won't post until I do so first.)
I liked the book a lot. It is innovative and very original. The narrative and humour make it a particularly exciting and funny experience, which gradually leads you to the already known, inevitable end. It is moving, of course. What interests me more is the slightest glimpse of what may be described as a new wave of young English writers. It is undoubtedly overstimated, pretentious and unable to provide proof for the reference to a wave. Yet Richard Benson's book The Farm, whose fame sky rocketed thanks to Richard & Judy, also belongs to this 'wave'. It is about something pure, about something systematic trying to destroy that. That also goes for Alexander Masters and Stuart. It is greatly encouraging I think, especially as both of them are attempting to fight in their own ways.
Listen to an interview on Guardian podcast of both these authors discussing their particular books. I am considering reading The Farm. But like I said, I have no time.
No answer. Gonna go home.
M.M.
I don't really have the time for this, which probably has something to do with it. Yet I don't really do anything particularly productive. I am not saying that I am unproductive, but rather that unless I put all my efforts in, I tend steam along like a lethargic, lazy train.
This is an abrupt eruption of creativity. Don't know how it will end. It feels like I have finally managed to actually pick up the phone and attempt to make a call, after having been meaning to all night. Tuttt...This here, now, this place, this time, this moment: this is me dialing.
The outcome determines who or what answers.
This is what I call communication.
Ask me not what I am talking about.
Stuart: A life backwards was quite good. Finished it a while ago but obviously haven't thought about it a great deal. I mean I have in a way, whilst walking down the road, or maybe while washing my feet in the shower and eating my dinner. But I haven't really analyzed it the way Dr.Z probably would have. (Who by the way won't post until I do so first.)
I liked the book a lot. It is innovative and very original. The narrative and humour make it a particularly exciting and funny experience, which gradually leads you to the already known, inevitable end. It is moving, of course. What interests me more is the slightest glimpse of what may be described as a new wave of young English writers. It is undoubtedly overstimated, pretentious and unable to provide proof for the reference to a wave. Yet Richard Benson's book The Farm, whose fame sky rocketed thanks to Richard & Judy, also belongs to this 'wave'. It is about something pure, about something systematic trying to destroy that. That also goes for Alexander Masters and Stuart. It is greatly encouraging I think, especially as both of them are attempting to fight in their own ways.
Listen to an interview on Guardian podcast of both these authors discussing their particular books. I am considering reading The Farm. But like I said, I have no time.
No answer. Gonna go home.
M.M.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Music To My Ears
So I finally get the chance to get involved with this project or rather "voyage", as my partner in crime would no doubt refer to it. (I shall ask him if he has a quote to give me from his dearest Holden Whatever.) It has taken me nearly two weeks of endless e-mails to not only get his attention but to get him to contribute to this poor site. I am Dr. Z. and we had originally decided to this together. It was meant to be an 'online book club', as I still remember us meeting in a random chat room for Lovers, Worshippers and Admireres of All Kinds of Written Words. Granted it was a strange place to meet in the first place, but in those days I was still under the impression we were of similar opinions on various matters. That belief has since given way to doubt.
I had told him about Blognet and so he goes and starts without further consultation. It quickly became his solo project of ramblings and non-sense. It was only in the last blog that he started to somewhat write a book review the way we had originally agreed to. Review books and start discussions. Every week we change so we would have more time to read. But this M.M. is unreliable, unfriendly and if I may say so, more than a little pretentious. I have yet to see him but we are meant to meet sometime next week for a cup of coffee and maybe start discussing the details that could add some real weight to this project. (Podcasts: live readings, discussions, music, etc.) But I wouldn't be surprised if he will want to run the show completely and do my head in.
On a different note I just wanted to express my deep dissappointment with The Music of Chance by Paul Auster. While I could see some elements of originality in his other works, particularly The New York Trilogy, I felt that this story completely failed in engaging the reader. If it would have been read as a manuscript without knowledge of the writer then I believe my friend M.M. would have dismissed it immediately. It is utterly confusing and never directs the reader to any possible themes. I think comparing him to Kafka is one hell of a daring statement to make. The language and style is simple and while it allows the reader to establish a comfortable flow, it doesn't offer anything to me that I would not be able to get from say a newspaper article. I also feel that the characters are not developed fully and failed miserably in winning the reader's sympathy. If you want my advice: STAY CLEAR OF AUSTER and even better yet, STAY CLEAR OF FICTION ALTOGETHER. It is vain and pretentious and incredibly boring if there is no skill from the writer.
You probably won't be surprised to learn that Stuart was my choice and that it will be infinitely better. I should also add that the title from my esteemed M.M. is actually a line from the book. So don't be fooled by his (lack of) imagination.
Dear reader, fear not indeed because Dr. Z. will make a regular appearance from now on and try to keep the other culprit under vigilant control.
Away we go!
Music To My Ears.
Dr.Z.
I had told him about Blognet and so he goes and starts without further consultation. It quickly became his solo project of ramblings and non-sense. It was only in the last blog that he started to somewhat write a book review the way we had originally agreed to. Review books and start discussions. Every week we change so we would have more time to read. But this M.M. is unreliable, unfriendly and if I may say so, more than a little pretentious. I have yet to see him but we are meant to meet sometime next week for a cup of coffee and maybe start discussing the details that could add some real weight to this project. (Podcasts: live readings, discussions, music, etc.) But I wouldn't be surprised if he will want to run the show completely and do my head in.
On a different note I just wanted to express my deep dissappointment with The Music of Chance by Paul Auster. While I could see some elements of originality in his other works, particularly The New York Trilogy, I felt that this story completely failed in engaging the reader. If it would have been read as a manuscript without knowledge of the writer then I believe my friend M.M. would have dismissed it immediately. It is utterly confusing and never directs the reader to any possible themes. I think comparing him to Kafka is one hell of a daring statement to make. The language and style is simple and while it allows the reader to establish a comfortable flow, it doesn't offer anything to me that I would not be able to get from say a newspaper article. I also feel that the characters are not developed fully and failed miserably in winning the reader's sympathy. If you want my advice: STAY CLEAR OF AUSTER and even better yet, STAY CLEAR OF FICTION ALTOGETHER. It is vain and pretentious and incredibly boring if there is no skill from the writer.
You probably won't be surprised to learn that Stuart was my choice and that it will be infinitely better. I should also add that the title from my esteemed M.M. is actually a line from the book. So don't be fooled by his (lack of) imagination.
Dear reader, fear not indeed because Dr. Z. will make a regular appearance from now on and try to keep the other culprit under vigilant control.
Away we go!
Music To My Ears.
Dr.Z.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Homogeneous mood of reflectiveness - up in smoke.
Your narrator is pleased to inform you that he has landed back in London. I am home so worry not, the words will continue to flow and their meaning surely falter. But fear not for all is not lost. Most of it but not all.
Buyabook, readabook,learnabook, knowabook, loveabook, worshipbooks, admireauthors. create. That's phony as hell as our beloved narrator Holden C. would say. Enough of that then.
American Psycho is a distant memory that is, to be fair, awoken by every third or fourth random person I encounter on the street, and sadly enough by approximately every second person I ecounter in University. Bad news indeed. But to keep the trouble low I won't reveal the exactitude or extent of my stirred emotions.
Paul Auster has come and gone since. Music of Chance. Like all his book they require patients, awareness and a willingness to think! Tough, I know. How can you read slowly, to take it all in and recognize what is happening when the book hurls you from word to word, chapter to chapter with the inevitable end constantly coming nearer while always remaining unclear. It is Sysiphus indeed, the endless struggle against the absurd. Push that boulder over the cliff knowning full well you well never manage and will have to start all over again at that one point when everything seems suspended, time momentarily stops and you think 'now, surely, it will fall. I have done it and am free.' No. The end is there but your still at the beginning. That's Auster. The absurd=existence. Very dark and brooding. Beckett and Kafka thrown together just to see what happens. Nobody thought about their dear readers though did they.
A very slow moving book that does pick up midway through. The story makes perfect sense but nobody would ever think of it. Infinitely simple. I recommend it if you are patient. Auster explores the depth of the human mind, its feebleness and strength when faced with the incomprehensible. Like the title suggests everything depends on fate, chance, coincidence, etc. It asks the common unanswerable questions that we all like to ask ourselves but nobody cares to answer anymore. (Not even try to.) It confronts the reader with the stark realities of life. Is there a purpose? Auster is ingenious and I cannot get enough of him. Nobody explores and adequately represents isolation, solitude and intelligence the way he does.
Although I have not even settled yet, still wearing my shoes and sweating in all sorts of places. That's enough stop that now. Ok.
The journey continues backwards from now on with a homeless guy called Stuart. A brief idea of its contents is revealed in the title.
Stay tuned.
M.M.
Buyabook, readabook,learnabook, knowabook, loveabook, worshipbooks, admireauthors. create. That's phony as hell as our beloved narrator Holden C. would say. Enough of that then.
American Psycho is a distant memory that is, to be fair, awoken by every third or fourth random person I encounter on the street, and sadly enough by approximately every second person I ecounter in University. Bad news indeed. But to keep the trouble low I won't reveal the exactitude or extent of my stirred emotions.
Paul Auster has come and gone since. Music of Chance. Like all his book they require patients, awareness and a willingness to think! Tough, I know. How can you read slowly, to take it all in and recognize what is happening when the book hurls you from word to word, chapter to chapter with the inevitable end constantly coming nearer while always remaining unclear. It is Sysiphus indeed, the endless struggle against the absurd. Push that boulder over the cliff knowning full well you well never manage and will have to start all over again at that one point when everything seems suspended, time momentarily stops and you think 'now, surely, it will fall. I have done it and am free.' No. The end is there but your still at the beginning. That's Auster. The absurd=existence. Very dark and brooding. Beckett and Kafka thrown together just to see what happens. Nobody thought about their dear readers though did they.
A very slow moving book that does pick up midway through. The story makes perfect sense but nobody would ever think of it. Infinitely simple. I recommend it if you are patient. Auster explores the depth of the human mind, its feebleness and strength when faced with the incomprehensible. Like the title suggests everything depends on fate, chance, coincidence, etc. It asks the common unanswerable questions that we all like to ask ourselves but nobody cares to answer anymore. (Not even try to.) It confronts the reader with the stark realities of life. Is there a purpose? Auster is ingenious and I cannot get enough of him. Nobody explores and adequately represents isolation, solitude and intelligence the way he does.
Although I have not even settled yet, still wearing my shoes and sweating in all sorts of places. That's enough stop that now. Ok.
The journey continues backwards from now on with a homeless guy called Stuart. A brief idea of its contents is revealed in the title.
Stay tuned.
M.M.
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