What's really been bothering me lately is the expression "tapped out." Where does it come from? I always assumed that it came from wrestling: when a man is pinned and gives up unpinning himself, he taps the other wrestler to indicate his surrender. But then, when you come to the end of a long grey day and realize that you haven't the strength for even one more useful task, shouldn't you say, "I've tapped out," or "I'm tapping out," as opposed to what one does say, which is "I'm tapped out."
That grammar would indicate that the etymology (can you have etymology of a phrase?) is rooted in a beer keg. When you pour beer from a keg you tap it, and when it's empty it's tapped out, right? (obviously, I'm way out of my depth here) Then the conjugation makes sense, because when you say "I'm tapped out" you are just substituting yourself for the beer keg, you being empty of energy, not beer.
But three dictionaries neither confirm nor deny this hypothesis (including Canadian Oxford!) and the definition of an expression is distressingly hard to Google. Now I'm worried I've made the whole thing up, and in fact no one says "tap out" in any context, ever, except me!
You know, I think I am. Tapped out, I mean. It's been a really long week. Perhaps I'll leave this question for better minds than mine, and go do something fun.
Can you bring me back a cardinal from Kentucky?
RR
PS--My orthodonist unexpectedly announced this morning that I don't have to wear my retainer during the day anymore. Unexpectedly because he'd said before that it would be maybe as much as six months before I'd have this luxury. I think he gave me the worst case scenario because he knows I don't take disappointment too well, but I take unexpected good news very well. Despite my exhaustion, I am ebullient. I went right to the dep and bought gum, Raspberry Extra, which is repulsive, but which I am chewing right now for the lack of anything else. On my way to the fun, I'll buy something better.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Milk Subjectivity
My thwarted attempt at laziness last night was to skip the grocery store in favour of picking up expensive milk at the convenience store. Thwarted because I wound up going to *four* convenience stores looking for skim milk. Granted, I was looking for the four-litre size, due to my terror of osteoporosis, but that didn't seem like *that* unreasonable of a request.
As I stomped about in the wind and snow (but who wears a thin jersey dress in November just because some part of her brain declared Tuesday "cute tights day"), I thought about how much I loathe milk with fat in it. Even diluted by coffee I can still feel the thickness catch in my throat. And, oh my goodness, we are embarking on the season of egg nog. It's so...viscous. I like the *flavour* of nog--I'll eat one of those yellow candy canes quite happily. But, ew, no, the "liquid" form is the consistency of...well. Thin milk 4-eva!
I have lived long enough to know that there is no "good" kind of milk--most people just like whatever they drank growing up and find everything else disgusting (which sucks especially for those who grew up on farms drinking unpasteurized milk, which is now illegal to sell in Ontario for reasons that...make no sense). Milk is totally subjective--and unless you drink table cream by the glass, I think it's all pretty good for you. I think *all* the percentages should be available in stores, naturally, but I don't really think there's an argument available to be won.
My point, sorta, is about how I think I'm getting more mature, because I'm able to extend that sort of relativism (such a dirty word, but some things *are* relative) to things I used to be quite strident about. Fiction, for example--more and more I find myself able to recognize quality prose when I actually don't personally enjoy it. And I'll also *read* it, which is a big step for me. Not that I think it's somehow virtuous of me to drag myself through tomes I hate, but there's lots to be learned outside of the narrow spectrum of the tried and true. I get to the end and say, "Wow, that was an impressive thing to write, I could never write that. I would never want to write that, but I do wish I could do certain things that this author did." But not out loud of course, because I'm usually reading on the bus.
Of course, there are things that are objectively bad--sour milk, prose by the light of the moon, those sorts of things. Not everything is relative.
As I stomped about in the wind and snow (but who wears a thin jersey dress in November just because some part of her brain declared Tuesday "cute tights day"), I thought about how much I loathe milk with fat in it. Even diluted by coffee I can still feel the thickness catch in my throat. And, oh my goodness, we are embarking on the season of egg nog. It's so...viscous. I like the *flavour* of nog--I'll eat one of those yellow candy canes quite happily. But, ew, no, the "liquid" form is the consistency of...well. Thin milk 4-eva!
I have lived long enough to know that there is no "good" kind of milk--most people just like whatever they drank growing up and find everything else disgusting (which sucks especially for those who grew up on farms drinking unpasteurized milk, which is now illegal to sell in Ontario for reasons that...make no sense). Milk is totally subjective--and unless you drink table cream by the glass, I think it's all pretty good for you. I think *all* the percentages should be available in stores, naturally, but I don't really think there's an argument available to be won.
My point, sorta, is about how I think I'm getting more mature, because I'm able to extend that sort of relativism (such a dirty word, but some things *are* relative) to things I used to be quite strident about. Fiction, for example--more and more I find myself able to recognize quality prose when I actually don't personally enjoy it. And I'll also *read* it, which is a big step for me. Not that I think it's somehow virtuous of me to drag myself through tomes I hate, but there's lots to be learned outside of the narrow spectrum of the tried and true. I get to the end and say, "Wow, that was an impressive thing to write, I could never write that. I would never want to write that, but I do wish I could do certain things that this author did." But not out loud of course, because I'm usually reading on the bus.
Of course, there are things that are objectively bad--sour milk, prose by the light of the moon, those sorts of things. Not everything is relative.
An open (love) letter to John K. Samson
It’s a funny thing: I also want to call requests through heating vents. I also sometimes find myself feeling like a float in a summer parade, or a girl in a Miss Somewhere sash. You seem to understand those things you shouldn’t miss. Also days that don’t like us, when all you want to do is drink and watch tv, though the sunlight demands action. You’ve got words for a lot of things I really feel have been needing words, like the 18 North Main and sinks full of bottles and cultery. I really think we could have a good conversation, if we were ever together in an all-night restaurant in a brand-new strip mall, killing time and communicating in questions. I’d like to ask you about the blinking snow in Winnipeg and whether wishing on the pop of a lightbulb actually works. I’d like to tell you that, if I believed in tears, I’d cry at hospital vespers. I think that you write music somebody could use. So, if we ever do meet, let the waitress put the chairs up, and we can talk about the weather, or how the weather used to be.
I’m so glad that you exist
RR
PS—John K. Samson is the lead singer and, more importantly, the lyricist for the wonderful Winnipeg band, The Weakerthans. Almost any song you could think of by that band, or Samson solo, will be an almost perfect poem or short story set to music. The above is a blender of some of my favourite lines—none of it’s mine except the pronouns and verb conjugations, in case there was any doubt.
PPS—It’s a purely *professional* love letter, of a striving writer to an admired one. John K. Samson is married to Christine Fellows who is actually a similarly brilliant lyricist, of lines like “A photo essay on a family in mourning / slightly perforated to better let the light in” “what’s good enough for chickens is plenty good enough for you and I”. Can you think of a better harmony?
I’m so glad that you exist
RR
PS—John K. Samson is the lead singer and, more importantly, the lyricist for the wonderful Winnipeg band, The Weakerthans. Almost any song you could think of by that band, or Samson solo, will be an almost perfect poem or short story set to music. The above is a blender of some of my favourite lines—none of it’s mine except the pronouns and verb conjugations, in case there was any doubt.
PPS—It’s a purely *professional* love letter, of a striving writer to an admired one. John K. Samson is married to Christine Fellows who is actually a similarly brilliant lyricist, of lines like “A photo essay on a family in mourning / slightly perforated to better let the light in” “what’s good enough for chickens is plenty good enough for you and I”. Can you think of a better harmony?
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Famous
Rose-coloured excitement: My manuscript Once won the Metcalf/Rooke award at Biblioasis. I shall commence living up to this honour very very shortly--no, really. So far, I mainly dance in front of my bathroom mirror.
The announcement came as a grace note at the end of evening of stellar and thoughtful readings in celebration of Biblioasis's translation series. The launch book is Ryszard Kapuscinski's selected poems, I Wrote Stone. The translators are Diana Kuprel and Marek Kusiba: she a resonant alto anglophone, and he a mellow murmuring native-speaker of Polish. They gave double readings of each poem, in both languages, and the effect was almost musical. I don't mean to over-aestheticize, the poems were disturbing and hopeful and thought-provoking, but it was something to just sit and listen. There were also readings in translation by Goran Simic and A. F. Moritz, and one about translation from Stephen Henighan. It was such an inspiring evening, but a girl does wind up feeling that she's woefully under-read and needs to retire to the library immediately.
In case you thought some sort of delusion of grandeur caused me to apply subject line to myself, let me assure you I meant the readers mentioned above. I am quite easily star-struck, and have only recently realized that in Toronto it is quite acceptable to go and congratulate a reader after an admirable performance. I was told this ages ago, but I didn't believe it--I mainly watch readings like movies, and scurry out as soon as they are over. When I first moved here, I met wonderfully talented and kind writer Michel Basilieres. He encouraged me to try to talk to other writers (at that point in my life, he was being pretty generous with that "other") and learn from them. I said I wasn't up to much. He assured me that Toronto writers don't really live up to the stereotypes--most are collegial and friendly and eager to encourage a newcomer. I wasn't buying it.
For the nervous among us, it's pretty hard to absorb such information (witness the incident, around the same period, when I hid behind a pole when someone tried to introduce me to Douglas Coupland). But it's really true that most writers I've ever chatted with has been more than forthcoming but I am usually too nervous to approach anyone. Anyway, after the formal part of the evening on Friday, I wandered a bit and talked to a number of people, including the readers, who seemed genuinely happy for my work and interested in it. It was lovely, but a little startling, like a character in a film turning to talk to you. Well, not really, but you get the idea.
It's a heady thought, that someday I'll be in the score of Canadian literature, perhaps as a grace note.
Look around around around
RR
The announcement came as a grace note at the end of evening of stellar and thoughtful readings in celebration of Biblioasis's translation series. The launch book is Ryszard Kapuscinski's selected poems, I Wrote Stone. The translators are Diana Kuprel and Marek Kusiba: she a resonant alto anglophone, and he a mellow murmuring native-speaker of Polish. They gave double readings of each poem, in both languages, and the effect was almost musical. I don't mean to over-aestheticize, the poems were disturbing and hopeful and thought-provoking, but it was something to just sit and listen. There were also readings in translation by Goran Simic and A. F. Moritz, and one about translation from Stephen Henighan. It was such an inspiring evening, but a girl does wind up feeling that she's woefully under-read and needs to retire to the library immediately.
In case you thought some sort of delusion of grandeur caused me to apply subject line to myself, let me assure you I meant the readers mentioned above. I am quite easily star-struck, and have only recently realized that in Toronto it is quite acceptable to go and congratulate a reader after an admirable performance. I was told this ages ago, but I didn't believe it--I mainly watch readings like movies, and scurry out as soon as they are over. When I first moved here, I met wonderfully talented and kind writer Michel Basilieres. He encouraged me to try to talk to other writers (at that point in my life, he was being pretty generous with that "other") and learn from them. I said I wasn't up to much. He assured me that Toronto writers don't really live up to the stereotypes--most are collegial and friendly and eager to encourage a newcomer. I wasn't buying it.
For the nervous among us, it's pretty hard to absorb such information (witness the incident, around the same period, when I hid behind a pole when someone tried to introduce me to Douglas Coupland). But it's really true that most writers I've ever chatted with has been more than forthcoming but I am usually too nervous to approach anyone. Anyway, after the formal part of the evening on Friday, I wandered a bit and talked to a number of people, including the readers, who seemed genuinely happy for my work and interested in it. It was lovely, but a little startling, like a character in a film turning to talk to you. Well, not really, but you get the idea.
It's a heady thought, that someday I'll be in the score of Canadian literature, perhaps as a grace note.
Look around around around
RR
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Correct Writing Demands Respect
I’ve been meaning to post this for ages. It’s a list of quotations from the materials that I used this past summer to teach basic writing skills. My students were elementary-school kids who had recently immigrated from South Korea, so it’s super-simple stuff. Shockingly relevant. It’s funny how these basic facts of words-on-pages, things I should scoff to be reminded of, are not actually how I think of my writing, at least not very often.
--What is a paragraph? A paragraph is a collection of sentences connected to a single idea.
--No matter how well you write, you are not likely to create a perfect paper the first time you sit down to write.
--Ask yourself whether all of your sentences and paragraphs make sense.
--Adjectives that tell what kind, how many, or which one can be used to add information to sentences.
--Adverbs that tell how, when, or where can be used to add information to sentences.
--Vivid verbs help your readers form a clear picture of the action.
--Some stories seem so real that we believe they could actually happen.
--Writing is about making decisions. As the writer, you decide what to include and what not include.
I could stand to approach English as a new and difficult language more often, I think.
C’mon/belly up /to this brand new language
RR
--What is a paragraph? A paragraph is a collection of sentences connected to a single idea.
--No matter how well you write, you are not likely to create a perfect paper the first time you sit down to write.
--Ask yourself whether all of your sentences and paragraphs make sense.
--Adjectives that tell what kind, how many, or which one can be used to add information to sentences.
--Adverbs that tell how, when, or where can be used to add information to sentences.
--Vivid verbs help your readers form a clear picture of the action.
--Some stories seem so real that we believe they could actually happen.
--Writing is about making decisions. As the writer, you decide what to include and what not include.
I could stand to approach English as a new and difficult language more often, I think.
C’mon/belly up /to this brand new language
RR
Rose-coloured Police Blotter
Item #1 -- Next-door neighbour bitten (on ass) by vicious dog in Mac's Milk. Dog was supervised only by small child, who cried at the sight of blood. Neighbour gave up on recrimination, went to get tetanus shot.
Item #2 -- Car spun out on the street in front of my building, crashed into the front door of the house next to us. Fire engines blocked traffic, police traffic director unsympathetic to pedestrians.
Item #3 -- Colleague's expensive high-heeled shoe (1) lost/stolen at gym. Colleague angry, sad.
Item #4 -- The meeting I came in early for has been cancelled.
What a world in which we live.
Now I know I had plenty of time
RR
Item #2 -- Car spun out on the street in front of my building, crashed into the front door of the house next to us. Fire engines blocked traffic, police traffic director unsympathetic to pedestrians.
Item #3 -- Colleague's expensive high-heeled shoe (1) lost/stolen at gym. Colleague angry, sad.
Item #4 -- The meeting I came in early for has been cancelled.
What a world in which we live.
Now I know I had plenty of time
RR
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Charity Begins in the Head
As the season of goodwill towards mankind begins, there are of course more charitable appeals in the air, the mail, email, street. While in general I'm pretty sloppy about donations--I always *mean* to give more than I do--I can usually get it together in December, at least a little. My whole rationelle for being a Jew who loves Christmas is probably another blog post, but I think it should suffice to say that people *do* try to be extra nice around this time of year, and remember what they have in common with others, less fortunate or not.
I've been thinking about giving along a couple of lines, and the suggestions I've gotten have shown me that it's not just cellphones and video games that are moving ahead by leaps and bounds unbeknowst to me. One possibility suggested as a gift to people who are anti-gift, and the Gifts of Hope. It's a website where you can donate $$ for a specific purpose in a specific purpose--literacy in Ghana, farm animals in Ethiopa—they've got it priced right down to the goat, so you know that your money does not go into a pool where it is diluted by other people's donations, you bucks go purely to one family that is the recipient of *your* goat. This is a new and, to me, somewhat humourous invention, but it's cool and makes a cute card, and will certainly drum up investment in what is it bottom a deeply humane program to try to help people help themselves.
What's funny about it though is that everyone wants to be *involved* it seems. Just a cheque, to assign decision-making and responsibility to the administrators of the charity is becoming passe. The Christmas drive that I'm involved in this year, as many years in the past, is not a cash one, or even just a big box of canned goods and unwrapped toys. We have been assigned families in the nearby community who are in dire straights (I'm sorry, I would normally post a link here for your interest, but it's a corporate giving program and there isn't one of the public) and our donations are to be specific items on their wish-list, specific to their unique needs, purchased by the donators ourselves.
The profiles we receive are incredibly detailed. We get names and ages, clothing and shoe sizes, personal preferences, and a hierarchy of needs from toys and games to sweatpants and sanitary napkins. To me, it seems dreadfully invasive and undignified. The kidstuff is fun to shop for, but I feel like it's not fair to the parents to take away the joy in picking out the pretty toys for the kids. And the grownup stuff--knowing that mom Sandy takes three sizes different between top and bottom, knowing what basic household items are missing, is really too much for me.
I made these complaints to a colleague--it all seemed to be a bit of bourgeois mistrust, an update on "You can't give a panhandler loose change because he'll just spend it on booze. Better to give money to an agency, that'll make sure it goes towards food, clothes and a sensible job-training program." Only now, tales of misappropriation and scandal lurking in our heads ("I can't remember when, or which one, but one of them there charities was spending like *ninety* percent of the revenue on 'administration', and we know what that is!")--if you want to make sure your donation doesn't evapourate directly into ethanol, better make sure it's in concrete form of something practical ("Blue jeans, a teddy bear and four cans of baked beans!") with a name and address gift card attached.
My colleague pointed out the system isn't really all that cynical--many of these are single parent homes, and shopping with the kids, or finding time to do it at all for a working parent, might be an issue. Plus they'd signed up for the program, so they clearly either lacked my qualms or found their need to be greater them.
Fair enough. She made good points, and vehemently, clearly concerned that she not let my potential aid to these families disappear due to some semi-imagined PCness. It was good of her, and I shut up and returned to reading my list.
And quickly got sucked in. There are several toys on the list that I loved as a wee one, and I'd like to go see the updates. And there were a couple requests for "teen novels," a category that I have very strong opinions on, and then of course there's the vegetarian baked beans. So I made my own shopping list and that's when I realized the genius of the thing. If I buy everything that twigged my interest, and I probably will, I'll wind up spending sizeably more than what would strike me as a "decent donation" in cash. That's what all these details are really about--it's easier to give more to people you relate to as in some way just like you. And in reading the list, I found that connexion, as I suspect most people did. Everybody needs sweatpants, warm socks and novels. We're all human, after all.
Went upstairs and had a smoke
RR
I've been thinking about giving along a couple of lines, and the suggestions I've gotten have shown me that it's not just cellphones and video games that are moving ahead by leaps and bounds unbeknowst to me. One possibility suggested as a gift to people who are anti-gift, and the Gifts of Hope. It's a website where you can donate $$ for a specific purpose in a specific purpose--literacy in Ghana, farm animals in Ethiopa—they've got it priced right down to the goat, so you know that your money does not go into a pool where it is diluted by other people's donations, you bucks go purely to one family that is the recipient of *your* goat. This is a new and, to me, somewhat humourous invention, but it's cool and makes a cute card, and will certainly drum up investment in what is it bottom a deeply humane program to try to help people help themselves.
What's funny about it though is that everyone wants to be *involved* it seems. Just a cheque, to assign decision-making and responsibility to the administrators of the charity is becoming passe. The Christmas drive that I'm involved in this year, as many years in the past, is not a cash one, or even just a big box of canned goods and unwrapped toys. We have been assigned families in the nearby community who are in dire straights (I'm sorry, I would normally post a link here for your interest, but it's a corporate giving program and there isn't one of the public) and our donations are to be specific items on their wish-list, specific to their unique needs, purchased by the donators ourselves.
The profiles we receive are incredibly detailed. We get names and ages, clothing and shoe sizes, personal preferences, and a hierarchy of needs from toys and games to sweatpants and sanitary napkins. To me, it seems dreadfully invasive and undignified. The kidstuff is fun to shop for, but I feel like it's not fair to the parents to take away the joy in picking out the pretty toys for the kids. And the grownup stuff--knowing that mom Sandy takes three sizes different between top and bottom, knowing what basic household items are missing, is really too much for me.
I made these complaints to a colleague--it all seemed to be a bit of bourgeois mistrust, an update on "You can't give a panhandler loose change because he'll just spend it on booze. Better to give money to an agency, that'll make sure it goes towards food, clothes and a sensible job-training program." Only now, tales of misappropriation and scandal lurking in our heads ("I can't remember when, or which one, but one of them there charities was spending like *ninety* percent of the revenue on 'administration', and we know what that is!")--if you want to make sure your donation doesn't evapourate directly into ethanol, better make sure it's in concrete form of something practical ("Blue jeans, a teddy bear and four cans of baked beans!") with a name and address gift card attached.
My colleague pointed out the system isn't really all that cynical--many of these are single parent homes, and shopping with the kids, or finding time to do it at all for a working parent, might be an issue. Plus they'd signed up for the program, so they clearly either lacked my qualms or found their need to be greater them.
Fair enough. She made good points, and vehemently, clearly concerned that she not let my potential aid to these families disappear due to some semi-imagined PCness. It was good of her, and I shut up and returned to reading my list.
And quickly got sucked in. There are several toys on the list that I loved as a wee one, and I'd like to go see the updates. And there were a couple requests for "teen novels," a category that I have very strong opinions on, and then of course there's the vegetarian baked beans. So I made my own shopping list and that's when I realized the genius of the thing. If I buy everything that twigged my interest, and I probably will, I'll wind up spending sizeably more than what would strike me as a "decent donation" in cash. That's what all these details are really about--it's easier to give more to people you relate to as in some way just like you. And in reading the list, I found that connexion, as I suspect most people did. Everybody needs sweatpants, warm socks and novels. We're all human, after all.
Went upstairs and had a smoke
RR
Saturday, November 17, 2007
What's Up Today
Today is the only day of the year when I buy a daily newspaper (unless of course someone I know publishes something in one, or gets married or dies and it is annoucned in one): it's Milk Calendar day! Lots of places publish pretty recipe calendars, but the Dairy Farmers' organization were first (I have no proof) and best (I have no proof of this either, but am sure, having tried to cook things from others). I could not figure out from the website exactly what newspapers have it today, but in Toronto it's The Star and I know a number of other TorStar owned papers carry it too. I hope you get one, it's groovy (no, it isn't, it's the polar opposite of groovy, but still wonderful).
Lalalala!
RR
Lalalala!
RR
Friday, November 16, 2007
Hey Day
I keep forgetting about it, because I'm not actually going to be there, but today is my graduation day. Huzzah! I may have said it before, perhaps when I completed my thesis, when I submitted my thesis, and/or when I defended my thesis, but this time, absolutely for sure, I am a Mistress of the Arts...as of slightly after 2pm, I suppose.
Raise your heavy eyes
RR
Raise your heavy eyes
RR
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Blindsided by Celebrity Gossip
So last week I was all abuzz about how good the film Michael Clayton was, and how very talented (ok, ok, and dreamy) George Clooney is. I thought I would like to see some other films with him in them, and happily the internet obliged with the above-linked filmography...which I found staggeringly bereft of any film I particularly wanted to see. I'm sure lots of those are quite good, he won an Oscar after all, and maybe I'll get round to seeing something eventually, but not as exciting as I hoped.
*Anyway*, my Googling led me not only to lists of professional accomplishments but to crazed fan sites (man, a lot of people loved ER a lot) and to news stories concerning the Googlage subject. As a matter of fact, just moments before my search (I love how they rank recently posted stories, usually pointless given what I'm searching for, but I imagine useful if you read the actual news), there was an real, seemingly true news story that Clooney got into a fight with Fabio in a restaurant over, conservative estimate, nothing, but it was so funny I kept searching.
I think I need to be banned from the internet, because I now know a *lot* about George Clooney, and none of it is information that I need...or, I've discovered , information that anybody wants to be told (cue you to close the page!) But wait, because George seems to be sort of a decent guy, with a good sense of humour (but not about Fabio) and lots of right-headed political opinions. Also, and this is the point in the search when I got upset, he has a lot of problems that you can feel really bad about: he did a torture scene for a movie and fell and hit his head, tore the envelope thingy of his spinal cord and wound up with spinal fluid *dripping out his nose*. Is that not the worst thing you ever heard? He said the pain was so bad he considered killing himself--even if it wasn't, gosh, it would still seem possible. Poor guy.
So I was horrorstruck and fascinated, and on I foraged, hoping to find the "George Clooney Regains Will to Live, Control of Nostrils" *Us Weekly* story or something. Such a story is not to be found, but eventually as the years pass (this was in 2005) you find the focus in interview shifts away from brain damage and on towards swearing off marriage, Oscar speeches, Darfur, etc. Which is nice to see.
I thought I had it licked. George Clooney is all right, I don't need to see any of his movies, I'm moving on. Only there I was in the grocery store lineup, and I turned my head to be confronted my Owen Wilson and *his* woes. Outside the store, I demanded of my friend P--"Why is Jessica Simpson trying to help Owen Wilson get over his woes?"
"I don't know, Becky."
"Are they friends? I didn't know they were friends."
"Um, I don't know, Becky."
"Because if she's just some chick, I don't think that will help much. Do you think she knows him?"
"Um, I have a job."
I might very well get into this, possibly after I finish this post. I have never before known the joys of famous people and what they might be doing, thinking and feeling. I have never thought it might be fun to know, and now I do. Why? I've been theorizing, trying to feel less like salon lady with lips full of Botox and a fist full of tabloids. Here's what I've got: I love a good story, and I really don't like endings. If I like anything--a book, a movie, a relationship, a sandwich--I don't see why it can't go on forever. I hate having to give up on characters i've grown attached to, having to admit that once the credits role they aren't my friends anymore. That they were never my friends in the first place doesn't enter the picture--I related, we got involved.
Michael Clayton, the fictional character, is not coming back--the movie is over, my DVD player is broken, and there's unlikely to be a sequel (although--I could sorta see it). George Clooney, on the other hand, is likely to be back next week, making fun of Bush, doing something complicated with a motorcycle and that girl who ate a scorpion on tv. And thank goodness, because narrative arc be damned, I just like the story to keep going. Maybe this is why people get so histrionic when famous people die...?
My love she throws me like a rubber ball
*Anyway*, my Googling led me not only to lists of professional accomplishments but to crazed fan sites (man, a lot of people loved ER a lot) and to news stories concerning the Googlage subject. As a matter of fact, just moments before my search (I love how they rank recently posted stories, usually pointless given what I'm searching for, but I imagine useful if you read the actual news), there was an real, seemingly true news story that Clooney got into a fight with Fabio in a restaurant over, conservative estimate, nothing, but it was so funny I kept searching.
I think I need to be banned from the internet, because I now know a *lot* about George Clooney, and none of it is information that I need...or, I've discovered , information that anybody wants to be told (cue you to close the page!) But wait, because George seems to be sort of a decent guy, with a good sense of humour (but not about Fabio) and lots of right-headed political opinions. Also, and this is the point in the search when I got upset, he has a lot of problems that you can feel really bad about: he did a torture scene for a movie and fell and hit his head, tore the envelope thingy of his spinal cord and wound up with spinal fluid *dripping out his nose*. Is that not the worst thing you ever heard? He said the pain was so bad he considered killing himself--even if it wasn't, gosh, it would still seem possible. Poor guy.
So I was horrorstruck and fascinated, and on I foraged, hoping to find the "George Clooney Regains Will to Live, Control of Nostrils" *Us Weekly* story or something. Such a story is not to be found, but eventually as the years pass (this was in 2005) you find the focus in interview shifts away from brain damage and on towards swearing off marriage, Oscar speeches, Darfur, etc. Which is nice to see.
I thought I had it licked. George Clooney is all right, I don't need to see any of his movies, I'm moving on. Only there I was in the grocery store lineup, and I turned my head to be confronted my Owen Wilson and *his* woes. Outside the store, I demanded of my friend P--"Why is Jessica Simpson trying to help Owen Wilson get over his woes?"
"I don't know, Becky."
"Are they friends? I didn't know they were friends."
"Um, I don't know, Becky."
"Because if she's just some chick, I don't think that will help much. Do you think she knows him?"
"Um, I have a job."
I might very well get into this, possibly after I finish this post. I have never before known the joys of famous people and what they might be doing, thinking and feeling. I have never thought it might be fun to know, and now I do. Why? I've been theorizing, trying to feel less like salon lady with lips full of Botox and a fist full of tabloids. Here's what I've got: I love a good story, and I really don't like endings. If I like anything--a book, a movie, a relationship, a sandwich--I don't see why it can't go on forever. I hate having to give up on characters i've grown attached to, having to admit that once the credits role they aren't my friends anymore. That they were never my friends in the first place doesn't enter the picture--I related, we got involved.
Michael Clayton, the fictional character, is not coming back--the movie is over, my DVD player is broken, and there's unlikely to be a sequel (although--I could sorta see it). George Clooney, on the other hand, is likely to be back next week, making fun of Bush, doing something complicated with a motorcycle and that girl who ate a scorpion on tv. And thank goodness, because narrative arc be damned, I just like the story to keep going. Maybe this is why people get so histrionic when famous people die...?
My love she throws me like a rubber ball
Monday, November 12, 2007
Metabooks
So I've been polling semi-seriously on this readers reading readers thing, and I've found a good number of books about the act of reading--not surprising, writers are told to write what we know, and that's what we know. So we have characters reading Great Expectations in Mr. Pip and characters reading (I believe, I haven't read it myself) the seven complete novels of Jane Austen in The Jane Austen Book Club, while the characters are reading everything and nothing in Italo Calvino's brilliant (I believe; I have read it and loved it, but my friend J once threw it across a room) If On a Winter's Night a Traveller.
But but but...would I sound ungrateful to the nice and well-read people whoe helped with this list if I said these are none quite what I meant. This is reading as *plot*, which is wonderful, but I wanted reading as *character*--what and how characters read developing who they are. I only got a couple of those: Anna cutting the pages of her French novel in Anna Karenin and, my favourite of the whole game, the March girls reading and interpreting Pilgrim's Progress in Little Women. Isn't that a lovely one? Not only because *Little Women* is one of my most favouritest childhood books, but also because it's a small little anecdote in a novel that's about million other things. It's just a fun (and yes, semi-moralistic, but all of a piece) incident that shows how the sisters work together, how they imagine, how they believe and think things in their world work. I think my point is that books are, yes, sometimes monumental and life-altering and the single burning ember of our consciousnesses...but mainly not. Mainly books are part of the fabric of our lives and our selves, the gentle background hum that, along with food and friendship and warm socks, make our days.
An illusion to me now
RR
But but but...would I sound ungrateful to the nice and well-read people whoe helped with this list if I said these are none quite what I meant. This is reading as *plot*, which is wonderful, but I wanted reading as *character*--what and how characters read developing who they are. I only got a couple of those: Anna cutting the pages of her French novel in Anna Karenin and, my favourite of the whole game, the March girls reading and interpreting Pilgrim's Progress in Little Women. Isn't that a lovely one? Not only because *Little Women* is one of my most favouritest childhood books, but also because it's a small little anecdote in a novel that's about million other things. It's just a fun (and yes, semi-moralistic, but all of a piece) incident that shows how the sisters work together, how they imagine, how they believe and think things in their world work. I think my point is that books are, yes, sometimes monumental and life-altering and the single burning ember of our consciousnesses...but mainly not. Mainly books are part of the fabric of our lives and our selves, the gentle background hum that, along with food and friendship and warm socks, make our days.
An illusion to me now
RR
Sunday, November 11, 2007
So cute!
Hey, do you guys know my adorable friend Corinna? Did you know she's famous? She made a how-to video and it's on the internet. I'm going to break my "No Christmas in November" rule to post it here: Corinna Decorates with Pinecones!!!.
If I had an aeroplane I still wouldn't make it on time
RR
If I had an aeroplane I still wouldn't make it on time
RR
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Readers reading readers
I am thinking about metaness today, hence the previous post. Partly because I am headed to my brother's this evening to watch 30 Rock, that hilarious tv show about writing a hilarious tv show. We're trying to use the structure of the sitcom to help us write our own (sadly, no link [yet]), but also watching the sheningans of the writers gives us (me, anyway) about how writing as a team might go, or at least things we could throw at each other. And then, mentioning the story "Sleep" yesterday put me in mind of the fact that that was a story, in large part, about someone reading, which is very rare.
Insightful Kerry posted this about how important it is to see characters in fiction working if we are to fully imagine their lives, something I so utterly believe. I have been wondering what else that is normally left out would be good to have in? We never see the housework, but perhaps the times in people's lives most worth immortalizing in story are not the weeks and months when the stove was always sparkling. And maybe the events of novels and short stories often preclude a lot of leisure time for reading, television watching, movie attendance. God knows, a week in which I finish three books is not one you want to read a story about (or even a blog post).
But writers are word creatures and we build our lives as well as our fictions out of words, and I think characters can't help but reflect this. Yet I am having trouble thinking of concrete incidents of this--who wants to help me make a list of books read by fictional characters? Or even tv shows watched by them--I very much enjoyed in the current New Quarterly when Amelia Defalco's characters in "Monuments" watched rented episodes of Monty Python and Kids in the Hall as an excuse for time together. That wreaks of real life. Where else have I seen that?
On the other hand, writing about writing, whether on the page or on the screen, gets boring real fast. Writers are self-absorbed creatures, I know, and so I try to tread lightly on interests of my own that might not be anyone else's. Some can pull it off, of course: Roth's Zuckerman, Henry on Bosom Buddies and everything Aaron Sorkin ever wrote (think about it: tv sports writers, speech writers, tv comedy writers).
But is this sort of thing charmingly meta, insight into a delicate craft, or solipsism? As a girl who will, in 2008, attempt to finish a novel in which one of the central characters is a playwright, I do not know if I wish to push this question too far...
But a list of readers you've read about, that I'd like to see.
I wanna talk to you
RR
PS--And then there was of course, Black's Books, the best (and only) tv show ever set in a bookstore. Every now and then on that one, someone actually read something, too!
Insightful Kerry posted this about how important it is to see characters in fiction working if we are to fully imagine their lives, something I so utterly believe. I have been wondering what else that is normally left out would be good to have in? We never see the housework, but perhaps the times in people's lives most worth immortalizing in story are not the weeks and months when the stove was always sparkling. And maybe the events of novels and short stories often preclude a lot of leisure time for reading, television watching, movie attendance. God knows, a week in which I finish three books is not one you want to read a story about (or even a blog post).
But writers are word creatures and we build our lives as well as our fictions out of words, and I think characters can't help but reflect this. Yet I am having trouble thinking of concrete incidents of this--who wants to help me make a list of books read by fictional characters? Or even tv shows watched by them--I very much enjoyed in the current New Quarterly when Amelia Defalco's characters in "Monuments" watched rented episodes of Monty Python and Kids in the Hall as an excuse for time together. That wreaks of real life. Where else have I seen that?
On the other hand, writing about writing, whether on the page or on the screen, gets boring real fast. Writers are self-absorbed creatures, I know, and so I try to tread lightly on interests of my own that might not be anyone else's. Some can pull it off, of course: Roth's Zuckerman, Henry on Bosom Buddies and everything Aaron Sorkin ever wrote (think about it: tv sports writers, speech writers, tv comedy writers).
But is this sort of thing charmingly meta, insight into a delicate craft, or solipsism? As a girl who will, in 2008, attempt to finish a novel in which one of the central characters is a playwright, I do not know if I wish to push this question too far...
But a list of readers you've read about, that I'd like to see.
I wanna talk to you
RR
PS--And then there was of course, Black's Books, the best (and only) tv show ever set in a bookstore. Every now and then on that one, someone actually read something, too!
Think about It (iv)
metafiction: writing about writing
metadata: data about data
metacognition: thinking about thinking
metalanguage: words about words (even more elegant: metalingual)
metadata: data about data
metacognition: thinking about thinking
metalanguage: words about words (even more elegant: metalingual)
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
To The New Yorker--all my love
Nobody needs another tribute to the utter definition of a venerable magazine, The New Yorker. It's been around since 1925, everybody's heard of it and probably has an opinion on it, and it's even got it's own hater blogs (which I will not link, even though the one I read was pretty funny). And yet I love it, passionately. It's the only magazine in my life; it's the only magazine for me.
I really don't think it's a strange choice for my sole subscription, though I get occasional comments: why don't you read a Canadian magazine or a magazine more relevant to your industry or a freakin' daily so you wouldn't always be mystified by what's going on in the world.
These are all valid suggestions, but they are made by people who don't read the way I read (like a lunatic) and who have room in their lives for more than one periodical.
I don't.
I don't like to skim, I don't like to skip, and I don't like to miss anything. If it's worth reading, to me, it's worth reading the whole bloody thing. If I took a daily newspaper, I would probably have to quit my job and devote myself to it full time. One New Yorker, read in full earnestness, takes about a week of trips to the gym, if I keep up my cardio, if I don't miss any days. And that's what I do.
Not because I am insanely obsessive, although I am, but because I love it. I grew up with the New Yorker. First I just read the panel cartoons, then I read the movie reviews, then I started into the prose and I've never looked back. If you are going to let any mag filter the world for you, better pick one with high standards. Two of the stories on my top-ten list a few weeks back I originally read in the New Yorker--Haruki Murakami's "Sleep" when I was just 10 or 11, and had no idea whether Haruki was a man's or woman's name, or if what grownups did at night *wasn't* eat chocolate and read *Anna Karenin." I pretty much hoped it was.
If you start early enough with any reading material, it will form it's own ideal reader (this is true of just about anything, I suppose; it's how you explain families). I love the New Yorker because I know the people who write it and I care about what they say, and actually what they are up to. It's been more than five years since I got my own subscription to the magazine; that's the point at which I felt up to committing to every word, pretty much the point from which I date my adulthood (semi-facetious). But now I *know* these people, because I read their thoughts on movies and music and Iraq and whaling. I really care about Louis Menand's criticism of the next book, because he was so dead-on about the last 12. And I don't follow baseball except when I'm actually at the dome, but I read all of Roger Angell's commentary, and I sort of follow.
Tunnel vision, not ideal, broader horizons, don't have to read every capsule review, blah blah blah. Someday. For now, it could be worse.
Let the last thing that I give you be a smile
RR
I don't know
I really don't think it's a strange choice for my sole subscription, though I get occasional comments: why don't you read a Canadian magazine or a magazine more relevant to your industry or a freakin' daily so you wouldn't always be mystified by what's going on in the world.
These are all valid suggestions, but they are made by people who don't read the way I read (like a lunatic) and who have room in their lives for more than one periodical.
I don't.
I don't like to skim, I don't like to skip, and I don't like to miss anything. If it's worth reading, to me, it's worth reading the whole bloody thing. If I took a daily newspaper, I would probably have to quit my job and devote myself to it full time. One New Yorker, read in full earnestness, takes about a week of trips to the gym, if I keep up my cardio, if I don't miss any days. And that's what I do.
Not because I am insanely obsessive, although I am, but because I love it. I grew up with the New Yorker. First I just read the panel cartoons, then I read the movie reviews, then I started into the prose and I've never looked back. If you are going to let any mag filter the world for you, better pick one with high standards. Two of the stories on my top-ten list a few weeks back I originally read in the New Yorker--Haruki Murakami's "Sleep" when I was just 10 or 11, and had no idea whether Haruki was a man's or woman's name, or if what grownups did at night *wasn't* eat chocolate and read *Anna Karenin." I pretty much hoped it was.
If you start early enough with any reading material, it will form it's own ideal reader (this is true of just about anything, I suppose; it's how you explain families). I love the New Yorker because I know the people who write it and I care about what they say, and actually what they are up to. It's been more than five years since I got my own subscription to the magazine; that's the point at which I felt up to committing to every word, pretty much the point from which I date my adulthood (semi-facetious). But now I *know* these people, because I read their thoughts on movies and music and Iraq and whaling. I really care about Louis Menand's criticism of the next book, because he was so dead-on about the last 12. And I don't follow baseball except when I'm actually at the dome, but I read all of Roger Angell's commentary, and I sort of follow.
Tunnel vision, not ideal, broader horizons, don't have to read every capsule review, blah blah blah. Someday. For now, it could be worse.
Let the last thing that I give you be a smile
RR
I don't know
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Furthur Bibliomania
More surprising insights as I continue to observe my books in their new, alphabetical habitat! I have never had too too much interest in books as objects, though I like to have them around me and to *read* them of course, but their actual bookness, when strewn around on the shelves at random, was not that interesting to me. Now, however, when I see Fieldings Helen and Henry together at last, I realize that in fact they both did usher in very new (and different) eras for the comic novel.
Also, I did alphabetize my nonfiction as well, separately (controversial choice?) and put my religious texts in there too (controversial choice?) Generally I was going by author, or editor if a collection of essays, but I tried alphebtizing the Bible (can't think of an appropriate link, you're on your own)by title. But B put it so far away from the Torah, under T, that I switched it to "author" and put them together under G for God, which put them neatly between John Gardner's Art of Fiction and Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones which, while we're blaspheming, could make a nice stern Old Testament God vs. warm and fuzzy New Testament God juxtoposition. And for still more sacrilege, I could point out that I realize the deity himself did not author these texts, but he did dictate or at least instigate them, according to some sources, and so I think they ought be alphabetized under his name, much as I would do if I ever owned an as-told-to celebrity biography, which of course I never would.
I have been able, thus far, to make less of the contrast between Christopher Pike and Harold Pinter but I'm sure I'll come up with something.
I know you're not my ideal
RR
Also, I did alphabetize my nonfiction as well, separately (controversial choice?) and put my religious texts in there too (controversial choice?) Generally I was going by author, or editor if a collection of essays, but I tried alphebtizing the Bible (can't think of an appropriate link, you're on your own)by title. But B put it so far away from the Torah, under T, that I switched it to "author" and put them together under G for God, which put them neatly between John Gardner's Art of Fiction and Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones which, while we're blaspheming, could make a nice stern Old Testament God vs. warm and fuzzy New Testament God juxtoposition. And for still more sacrilege, I could point out that I realize the deity himself did not author these texts, but he did dictate or at least instigate them, according to some sources, and so I think they ought be alphabetized under his name, much as I would do if I ever owned an as-told-to celebrity biography, which of course I never would.
I have been able, thus far, to make less of the contrast between Christopher Pike and Harold Pinter but I'm sure I'll come up with something.
I know you're not my ideal
RR
Monday, November 5, 2007
Disturbing mental processes
This morning, whilst getting ready for work, I followed a train of thought that cannot be produced here (not because I cannot remember; because it was too stupid) and arrived at an unexpected station: the reason that the 1980s cosmetic kit brand was bizarrely called Caboodles is because it is a kit and the name is reference the other half of the idiomatic expression, "the whole kit and caboodle," which as far as I can tell, actually means nothing. I wish to emphasize that I was not *trying* to figure this out, I just somehow did. And while I am obviously concerned about the trivia my mind sees fit to pursue, it is also obvious that I find this information at least somewhat interesting, as I am after all reproducing it here for your dubious benefit.
Now that I have utterly discredited myself, I would like to recommend that you see the film Michael Clayton if you are at all interested in watching a slow legal procedural with a) no romance, b) no buddy banter, c) very little action (a car does blow up [twice]). I am not certain why I liked this movie, it is not my bag at all, but I really did think it was sharp and interesting and, above all, well-written.
Also long past the point that everyone else noticed, I have finally seen a movie with George Clooney that I could understand (*Oh Brother Where Art Though?* remains utterly inpenetrable to me) and realize that he is both talented and attractive. Who, when he was Jo's concert pianist boyfriend Rick on the *The Facts of Life*, would have guessed? Even better was Tilda Swinton--in a movie full of (nuanced, interesting) archetypes, she played a character I have never seen before, and I think she did it brilliantly.
The plot (in the narrative and diabolical senses) concerns a bad pesticide and the lawsuit of the people it harmed, but this isn't *Erin Brokovich*, thank goodness, and there are larger issues at play than "bad corporations are bad!"
I just love the way a good movie makes me feel--like the world has more pockets and reaches than I knew about before.
We're coming off of the sidelines
RR
Now that I have utterly discredited myself, I would like to recommend that you see the film Michael Clayton if you are at all interested in watching a slow legal procedural with a) no romance, b) no buddy banter, c) very little action (a car does blow up [twice]). I am not certain why I liked this movie, it is not my bag at all, but I really did think it was sharp and interesting and, above all, well-written.
Also long past the point that everyone else noticed, I have finally seen a movie with George Clooney that I could understand (*Oh Brother Where Art Though?* remains utterly inpenetrable to me) and realize that he is both talented and attractive. Who, when he was Jo's concert pianist boyfriend Rick on the *The Facts of Life*, would have guessed? Even better was Tilda Swinton--in a movie full of (nuanced, interesting) archetypes, she played a character I have never seen before, and I think she did it brilliantly.
The plot (in the narrative and diabolical senses) concerns a bad pesticide and the lawsuit of the people it harmed, but this isn't *Erin Brokovich*, thank goodness, and there are larger issues at play than "bad corporations are bad!"
I just love the way a good movie makes me feel--like the world has more pockets and reaches than I knew about before.
We're coming off of the sidelines
RR
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Book Breakdown
The list in the previous post caused no end of drama around here, you may be surprised to learn. In writing it over the course of a few days, I tried to find a number of the physical books that the stories were in, either to double-check the title or just for the joy of rereading them. And I couldn't find several, which made me slightly crazy. This has happened to me before, and I think been posted about. In fact, it happens to me fairly often and the reason is *my books were in no order!* None. When I acquired a new book, I stuck it where it fit, and if I took something down, I rarely even put it back in the same spot. Thus, when I wanted something I could rarely find it immediately, or sometimes at all. It's a terrible plan. What have I been thinking?
When I was a child, I organized my books by height, tall picture books to tiny mass market paperbacks. Around age 10, I realized this was stupid, and somehow threw the baby out with the bathwater, deciding all systems of book organization are stupid!! I've worked in both bookstores and libraries, I *know* this isn't true in institutions, but somehow for a personal collection, it seemed pretentious to have a system.
Until this weekend, when I realized I was being an idiot, and took every book off the shelves, covered myself in dust and then lemon polish, separated out the reference books and periodicals and books I actually hate, and alphabetized the rest. It took a long time, and I inhaled a lot of polish, and listened to a recording of Beckett while I did it, so it made me a bit insane (especially since I never did find one of the books I was looking for!! I think I know who has it,though) Possibly such a state of mind is over fertile for revelation, but I did have several in the process, which I will now share with you in my lemon-hangover state:
1) I am still fresh enough from school that you could look at my shelves and get a false impression of my tastes. Not that I don't like Turgenev, but he's a bit over represented, considering.
2) Neither Alice Munro nor Diane Schlomperlin are on the list in the previous post, which is clearly a horrendous oversight.
3) I own a huge amount of Beckett, and that recording is fricking creepy, and that guy was a genius, but I'm really glad I don't know him.
4) Also creepy: I came across the work of a poet I once knew, never particularly famous, and not now either, at least according to Google. Anyway, this was an acquaintance who I discovered was involved with another acquaintance whose personality didn't much match, and that relationship mystified me for a long time. Since I barely knew either of them, I couldn't ask about how they operated (and the question I really wanted to ask, "How do you stand each other?" I probably couldn't have asked of anyone). So I wrote a little story about them to explain it to myself. It was a pretty good story, actually, and over the years I've built on it, written perhaps half a dozen stories about those characters and gradually forgotten they were based on anyone at all. Going back to those poems now, I realize that there was once a real person here, but the person I've imagined could never have written those poems, and is now wholly my own creation, even though when I picture the physical body of the character, it's that real poet in my mind's eye. Creepy or what?
You know what I'm going to do now? *Go outside*. I really think that will help!
I've been double-crossed now / for the very last time
RR
When I was a child, I organized my books by height, tall picture books to tiny mass market paperbacks. Around age 10, I realized this was stupid, and somehow threw the baby out with the bathwater, deciding all systems of book organization are stupid!! I've worked in both bookstores and libraries, I *know* this isn't true in institutions, but somehow for a personal collection, it seemed pretentious to have a system.
Until this weekend, when I realized I was being an idiot, and took every book off the shelves, covered myself in dust and then lemon polish, separated out the reference books and periodicals and books I actually hate, and alphabetized the rest. It took a long time, and I inhaled a lot of polish, and listened to a recording of Beckett while I did it, so it made me a bit insane (especially since I never did find one of the books I was looking for!! I think I know who has it,though) Possibly such a state of mind is over fertile for revelation, but I did have several in the process, which I will now share with you in my lemon-hangover state:
1) I am still fresh enough from school that you could look at my shelves and get a false impression of my tastes. Not that I don't like Turgenev, but he's a bit over represented, considering.
2) Neither Alice Munro nor Diane Schlomperlin are on the list in the previous post, which is clearly a horrendous oversight.
3) I own a huge amount of Beckett, and that recording is fricking creepy, and that guy was a genius, but I'm really glad I don't know him.
4) Also creepy: I came across the work of a poet I once knew, never particularly famous, and not now either, at least according to Google. Anyway, this was an acquaintance who I discovered was involved with another acquaintance whose personality didn't much match, and that relationship mystified me for a long time. Since I barely knew either of them, I couldn't ask about how they operated (and the question I really wanted to ask, "How do you stand each other?" I probably couldn't have asked of anyone). So I wrote a little story about them to explain it to myself. It was a pretty good story, actually, and over the years I've built on it, written perhaps half a dozen stories about those characters and gradually forgotten they were based on anyone at all. Going back to those poems now, I realize that there was once a real person here, but the person I've imagined could never have written those poems, and is now wholly my own creation, even though when I picture the physical body of the character, it's that real poet in my mind's eye. Creepy or what?
You know what I'm going to do now? *Go outside*. I really think that will help!
I've been double-crossed now / for the very last time
RR
Friday, November 2, 2007
10 Short Stories Meme
Everybody's doing it, first the Guardian, then Kerry Clare, then The Shakespearian Rag then me. You should tpo--your ten favourite short stories. As distinguished from the ten *best* short stories, because what a lunatic proposition that would be. I think in fact these are just the ten that are most in my mind lately, and this list would be completely different if I'd written it last year or, indeed, yesterday. And it's not in any order, natch.
1. Hills Like White Elephants by Ernest Hemingway
2. The Dead by James Joyce (hmm, those two in common with Mr. Beattie)
3. The Third and Final Continent by Jhumpra Lahiri (in common with Ms. Clare)
4. If You Lived Here You'd Be Home By Now by Andrew Pyper
5. Full by Lorrie Moore
6. Cosmic Gnomes (or possibly A Short Meditation on Tenth Grade Love) by Sharon English
7. Sleep by Haruki Murikami
8. A Perfect Day for Bananafish by J.D. Salinger
9. Here Come the Maples by John Updike
10. Mama Tuddi Tried by Leon Rooke
And I'm already frustrated, having just written this list and still able to change it, at not being able to include any of Grimm's Tales, or by David Sedaris, because those aren't generically correct, and not Faulkner's "Rose for Emily" because the story itself is actually annoying to me, it's just *how* it's done that's so cool. And I also suspect myself of liking the Hemingway story where he is dying of gangrene even better than "White Elephants," only I don't know the title and am too lazy to look it up. So we see that lists are imperfect things. But if you do one of these, I'd love to see it.
The hardest part of this is leaving you
RR
1. Hills Like White Elephants by Ernest Hemingway
2. The Dead by James Joyce (hmm, those two in common with Mr. Beattie)
3. The Third and Final Continent by Jhumpra Lahiri (in common with Ms. Clare)
4. If You Lived Here You'd Be Home By Now by Andrew Pyper
5. Full by Lorrie Moore
6. Cosmic Gnomes (or possibly A Short Meditation on Tenth Grade Love) by Sharon English
7. Sleep by Haruki Murikami
8. A Perfect Day for Bananafish by J.D. Salinger
9. Here Come the Maples by John Updike
10. Mama Tuddi Tried by Leon Rooke
And I'm already frustrated, having just written this list and still able to change it, at not being able to include any of Grimm's Tales, or by David Sedaris, because those aren't generically correct, and not Faulkner's "Rose for Emily" because the story itself is actually annoying to me, it's just *how* it's done that's so cool. And I also suspect myself of liking the Hemingway story where he is dying of gangrene even better than "White Elephants," only I don't know the title and am too lazy to look it up. So we see that lists are imperfect things. But if you do one of these, I'd love to see it.
The hardest part of this is leaving you
RR
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