"Live all you can; it's a mistake not to. It doesn't so much matter what you do in particular so long as you have your life. If you haven't had that what have you had?"
This is perhaps the most famous quote from Henry James' The Ambassadors. And that's certainly understandable.
I recently listened to Juliet Naked, another book by Nick Hornby, and I groped my way back to this quote.
The heroine of the book, Annie (age 39), has lived very little. Stuck in a dead-end relationship with Duncan (40ish, a drip), Annie feels she has wasted the last 15 years of her life. This is a shock.
She wants to live. She very much wants to have a baby. By random chance, she begins an email correspondence with a cult rock musician. Then she actually gets to meet him in person and he comes to stay with her in her small, depressing seaside town in England.
You may see where this is going. When confronted with the choice of whether to sleep with him or not, a minor character delivers a speech similar to the one in James' novel.
But sex aside, what does it mean to live? Unless it means wearing really short shorts and sitting in a book warehouse, I'm not sure that I'm truly living at this moment. And what about the moment after that? What about now?
I'm afraid it's quote time again, straight from Annie's brain, courtesy of Hornby's narrator:
"The cliche had it that kids were the future, but that wasn't it. They were the unreflective, active present. They were not themselves nostalgic because they couldn't be. And they retarded nostalgia in their parents. Even as they were getting sick and being bullied and becoming addicted to heroin and getting pregnant, they were in the moment. And she wanted to be in the moment with them. She wanted to worry herself sick about school and bullying and drugs."
That phrase, "the unreflective, active present" is striking. I feel most alive in my unreflective, active moments. Anything that takes me out of myself--like writing or filmmaking.
I leave you with another part of that famous quote in The Ambassadors:
"The right time is any time that one is still so lucky as to have [...] Live!"
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Light of My Life
I almost just finished listening to Lolita (performed by Jeremy Irons) and I'm not sure quite what to say about it.
The novel is brilliant, obviously. But having listened to it via audio book, what I really want is to read it via book book (visual book?). In other words Lolita makes me miss the textual, word-on-the-page experience of reading.
Nabokov crams in gads of verbal puns and other delights, many of which I'm sure I didn't get. I suppose any reading of Lolita must also take into account the mean spirited nature of much of the humor:
"I had glanced at her as she smiled in her sleep and had kissed her on her moist brow, and had left her forever, with a note of tender adieu which I taped to her navel--otherwise she might not have found it."
Still hilarious.
And then there's the subject matter. I'm struck by the ease with which Lolita is transformed from a 12 year-old child to a 15 or 16 year-old adolescent, both in the film versions of Lolita (1962, 1997) and the imagination of the average person--a "Lolita" is usually well past puberty. The ease is striking because of the lengths that Nabokov goes to elucidate Humbert Humbert's interest in the physical immaturity of prepubescent girls.
This is all very unsettling--as it should be and as Nabokov intended it to be. Why then have we taken the book and turned it into the prototype for one of the conventional sex interests of men? Because it's more titillating and less horrifying?
If I could assign a few companion pieces to Lolita, I would assign a short story by Milan Kundera called, I think, "Let the Old Dead Make Room for the Young Dead" and a short story by Doris Lessing called "The Habit of Loving."
The novel is brilliant, obviously. But having listened to it via audio book, what I really want is to read it via book book (visual book?). In other words Lolita makes me miss the textual, word-on-the-page experience of reading.
Nabokov crams in gads of verbal puns and other delights, many of which I'm sure I didn't get. I suppose any reading of Lolita must also take into account the mean spirited nature of much of the humor:
"I had glanced at her as she smiled in her sleep and had kissed her on her moist brow, and had left her forever, with a note of tender adieu which I taped to her navel--otherwise she might not have found it."
Still hilarious.
And then there's the subject matter. I'm struck by the ease with which Lolita is transformed from a 12 year-old child to a 15 or 16 year-old adolescent, both in the film versions of Lolita (1962, 1997) and the imagination of the average person--a "Lolita" is usually well past puberty. The ease is striking because of the lengths that Nabokov goes to elucidate Humbert Humbert's interest in the physical immaturity of prepubescent girls.
This is all very unsettling--as it should be and as Nabokov intended it to be. Why then have we taken the book and turned it into the prototype for one of the conventional sex interests of men? Because it's more titillating and less horrifying?
If I could assign a few companion pieces to Lolita, I would assign a short story by Milan Kundera called, I think, "Let the Old Dead Make Room for the Young Dead" and a short story by Doris Lessing called "The Habit of Loving."
Sunday, June 19, 2011
"How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company?"
This audiobook version of "Their Eyes Were Watching God" is superlatively good. Just amazing.
I had wanted to read "Their Eyes" after listening to an essay by Zadie Smith in her collection "Changing My Mind." In this essay, Smith writes about the universal literary tradition vs. the particularity of blackness--of female blackness. In sum, "It is not the Black Female Literary Tradition that makes Hurston great. It is Hurston herself."
I'm reminded of several things:
One, in my American literature class at community college we read "The Bluest Eye" by Toni Morrison. A classmate (white, sheltered) began wondering out loud whether or not black people were too invested in feeling sorry for themselves. The professor got upset.*
Two, a columnist in my college paper wrote in response to a lecture on God and black suffering, "We're talking about black suffering again?" or something to that effect.*
My American literature professor used to make a point about subjectivity--that saying, "You can't understand this book because you're not ____ (black, white, female, etc.)" is a fallacy.
It's like saying you have to be white, male, middle class and born in the 1930's to get "Rabbit, Run" or have lived with seven men of dubious appellation to properly decode "Snow White."
Hurston writes in her essay "How it Feels to be Colored Me":
"Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It's beyond me."
And so, maybe its not just black suffering we talk about, but human suffering.
Speaking of pleasure, this is one of my favorite scenes from the book:
"The sounds lulled Janie to soft slumber and she woke up with Tea Cake combing her hair and scratching the dandruff from her scalp. It made her more comfortable and drowsy.
'Tea Cake, where you git uh comb from tuh be combin' mah hair wid?'
'Ah brought it wid me. Come prepared tuh lay mah hands on it tonight.'"
*I mean, slavery was SO two centuries ago.
I had wanted to read "Their Eyes" after listening to an essay by Zadie Smith in her collection "Changing My Mind." In this essay, Smith writes about the universal literary tradition vs. the particularity of blackness--of female blackness. In sum, "It is not the Black Female Literary Tradition that makes Hurston great. It is Hurston herself."
I'm reminded of several things:
One, in my American literature class at community college we read "The Bluest Eye" by Toni Morrison. A classmate (white, sheltered) began wondering out loud whether or not black people were too invested in feeling sorry for themselves. The professor got upset.*
Two, a columnist in my college paper wrote in response to a lecture on God and black suffering, "We're talking about black suffering again?" or something to that effect.*
My American literature professor used to make a point about subjectivity--that saying, "You can't understand this book because you're not ____ (black, white, female, etc.)" is a fallacy.
It's like saying you have to be white, male, middle class and born in the 1930's to get "Rabbit, Run" or have lived with seven men of dubious appellation to properly decode "Snow White."
Hurston writes in her essay "How it Feels to be Colored Me":
"Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It's beyond me."
And so, maybe its not just black suffering we talk about, but human suffering.
Speaking of pleasure, this is one of my favorite scenes from the book:
"The sounds lulled Janie to soft slumber and she woke up with Tea Cake combing her hair and scratching the dandruff from her scalp. It made her more comfortable and drowsy.
'Tea Cake, where you git uh comb from tuh be combin' mah hair wid?'
'Ah brought it wid me. Come prepared tuh lay mah hands on it tonight.'"
*I mean, slavery was SO two centuries ago.
Friday, June 17, 2011
The Best Contraception
I can't get over the way posh English speakers pronounce the word "condom." They pronounce the "dom" as in "dominate" or "domicile" whereas American speakers pronounce it as in "wisdom" or "freedom." In the British pronunciation, both syllables end up having equal weight.
Try saying it out loud: "con-dom."
Now say it ten times fast.
I've been listening to the audiobook version of Nick Hornby's "Slam," a British YA novel about teenage pregnancy. The word condom comes up a lot.
I had just finished another book about teen pregnancy, "After"--as in after the 15 year-old protagonist dumps her unplanned baby in the trash. Yeah, hard-hitting stuff.
And so "Slam" launched me on the second half of my unintended teen pregnancy double feature, one told from the girl's perspective and one told from the boy's.
I can tell you this: listening to "After" made me never want to get pregnant. Even as a non-teenager. No way.
I liked "Slam" better. Nick Hornby ("High Fidelity", "About a Boy") has a way of making immature and clueless male beings sympathetic and even likable. Fundamentally, Hornby is a funny writer. His female characters are less fleshed-out, but this might be the by-product of first-person narration.
Hornby also wrote the screenplay for "An Education," which is told from a teenage girl's point of view. I don't remember "An Education" being particularly funny. Maybe I need to watch it again.
In conclusion, perhaps the best contraception of all is a book about getting pregnant at 15. That or a conDOM.
Try saying it out loud: "con-dom."
Now say it ten times fast.
I've been listening to the audiobook version of Nick Hornby's "Slam," a British YA novel about teenage pregnancy. The word condom comes up a lot.
I had just finished another book about teen pregnancy, "After"--as in after the 15 year-old protagonist dumps her unplanned baby in the trash. Yeah, hard-hitting stuff.
And so "Slam" launched me on the second half of my unintended teen pregnancy double feature, one told from the girl's perspective and one told from the boy's.
I can tell you this: listening to "After" made me never want to get pregnant. Even as a non-teenager. No way.
I liked "Slam" better. Nick Hornby ("High Fidelity", "About a Boy") has a way of making immature and clueless male beings sympathetic and even likable. Fundamentally, Hornby is a funny writer. His female characters are less fleshed-out, but this might be the by-product of first-person narration.
Hornby also wrote the screenplay for "An Education," which is told from a teenage girl's point of view. I don't remember "An Education" being particularly funny. Maybe I need to watch it again.
In conclusion, perhaps the best contraception of all is a book about getting pregnant at 15. That or a conDOM.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Things I wish I liked more than I do
The beach. Card games. Beer. Running. Hiking. Physical exertion of any kind. Large groups of people. Vegetables. Eating healthy. High heels. Small talk. Skiing/snowboarding. Dressing up. Going out. Studying. Museums. Art museums. Walking. Airports. Sightseeing. Texting. Dogs. Taking showers. The Beatles. Talking on the phone. That's what she said. Pictures of my friends' babies on Facebook.
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