Lately the phrase "a tragedy of broken teacups" has been stuck in my head. Indeed, it exists as one of the most quoted description of the genre of Realism, which my blog also takes its name from. A faithful representation of commonplace things.
Frank Norris was the one to pen those famous words in his essay The Responsibilities of the Novelist.
The last thing I want to think about tonight are commonplace things.
The daily grind, the very ideals of Realism to me lately are so tiresome. I cling to literature that gets as far from real life as possible, everything from J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan in the light of day to enjoyably guilty forays into Laurel K. Hamilton's Merry Gentry series curled up in bed. I have little funny or engaging to say tonight. I hope mostly to send my words into the void in the hopes that maybe when I've gotten them out of myself I'll be able to get some sleep. I've got a melancholy big enough for the Romantics.
The simple fact of the matter is that daily life currently has some difficulties. The Stinky Man Thing is deployed. My dogs both are reaching the end of their lives. My neighbors are desperately tempting me to hang my head out the window and yell exceptionally untoward things at their midnight revelry. Yet day to day life draws on apace, and although I do not want to play anymore, my wants have very little to do with what will or won't happen. I get enough of the tragedy of broken teacups during the day. I'll have no more exacting attention to what is. At least not in the books I read or write about.
Tonight I'll take my rumbly tumbly to make Rice Krispies Treats and eat them while they are still warm. I'll go to bed way too late to be happy in class tomorrow but have a breakfast of the leftovers waiting for me. Peanut butter slathered Rice Krispies and a Monster caffeine bomb and I'll be running fast and long on the breakfast of champions.
And as Alfred, Lord Tennyson once wrote:
"Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
Monday, June 20, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Useless Facts. My head is too small and full of stuff. I need a bigger head.
Roses may be red, but violets are indeed violet.
It takes more calories to digest a stick of celery than it provides. Celery has negative calories.
Charlie Chaplain once won third prize in a Charlie Chaplain look-alike contest.
The glue on Israeli postage is certified kosher.
The dot over the letter "i" is called a tittle.
A female ferret will die if it goes into heat and cannot find a mate.
Rhino horn is made of tightly compressed hair, not bone.
Donald Duck never wears pants but whenever he exits a bath or shower he wraps a towel around his waste.
For every foot a giraffe is tall, it has an inch of tongue.
It seems that I have a very limited amount of space in my head, and crap like this comprises most of it. On that note, I'm going to stumble off to grab some noms before returning to Political Science and French... Medieval Studies, headaches, and miles to go before I sleep.
It takes more calories to digest a stick of celery than it provides. Celery has negative calories.
Charlie Chaplain once won third prize in a Charlie Chaplain look-alike contest.
The glue on Israeli postage is certified kosher.
The dot over the letter "i" is called a tittle.
A female ferret will die if it goes into heat and cannot find a mate.
Rhino horn is made of tightly compressed hair, not bone.
Donald Duck never wears pants but whenever he exits a bath or shower he wraps a towel around his waste.
For every foot a giraffe is tall, it has an inch of tongue.
It seems that I have a very limited amount of space in my head, and crap like this comprises most of it. On that note, I'm going to stumble off to grab some noms before returning to Political Science and French... Medieval Studies, headaches, and miles to go before I sleep.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Well shit.
I had written a witty but pleasantly brief entry to resuscitate this blog. While the subject was perhaps not exiting, and the reanimation of this site for me has been a success, sadly that particular post was DOA. Cause of death? The Internet ate it. No shit. While reading it aloud to my Mumsy in the Preview screen, I noted a small grammatical mistake. I hit the 'back' key in order to correct it. BIG MISTAKE. So. I sit here, and rather than attempting to recreate the sad loss of that entry, I simply will have to put together a smaller and less exiting one which will be constantly compared to the deceased entry. Because tropes are fun, the lost entry will grow in our hearts and minds until no feat of skill or heroic act by this one will ever truly match it (despite the fact that it was never that good in the first place) and this entry too will likely die a sad and understated death due to lack of readers.
Speaking of death, recently my Great Aunt died. I wrestled with myself a great deal about if I aught to put an uppercase "Evil" in front of that title. Generally fond of epithets but not actually one to speak ill of the dead(ish), I decided to add this explanation. In life she had good qualities, I'm sure. I just don't know what many of them are, primarily because any action on her part often ended relationships, either by her disowning another member of my family or by their refusal to ever speak to her again. Having met her relatively few times over the coarse of my life, I really can only operate on this evidence, which, obviously, has not been good.
What earthly reason could this be relevant in a blog which professes to have the focus of literature, you may ask. Well.
It turns out among the possessions she left behind, I was bequeathed a set of volumes. Beautiful little (each no longer than my hand) red volumes. Of Shakespeare. Which were published (no joke) in 1909. This actually took some work to find out, because they are old enough that not only was the copyright information in a slightly different place than I expected to look, but all notable numeric information was written in roman numerals. Hot. Damn. Hot, squishy, flying DAMN!!
For any who know me well, this windfall will be accompanied with raised eyebrows and a general understanding of the whirlwind of emotions currently at war within me. Firstly I do admit I feel some guilt at gaining so much (in my eyes) from the death of another person. I do guilt very, very well having been raised Catholic on one side and Jewish on the other. Woof. This emotion, I have to admit, was overridden quickly by excitement and avarice at the thought of gaining another (Yes. Another. Not including this I actually have two of Willy's complete works. I'm not crazy... there are real reasons. I swear.) set of the bastardly Bard's works. This was followed immediately with a touch more guilt and then a desperate attempt to stem the flood of little exited squeaks that seemed to be leaking from me as I examined my lovely little books.
You see, I have a deep love-hate relationship with dear old Willy. Midsummer Night's Dream was the first bit of high literature I ever encountered, and although on occasion I'd like to exhume Bill and kick him in the genitals, I have such a deep and abiding love for his wordplay that I can do naught but hoard what I can. Demonstrated by the multiple copies I posses. One was a gift from my Stinky Man Thing. Generally Disgruntled, he really has got some lovely qualities (not the least of which, apparently, is sexcellent taste in books) he bought a copy that I had been lusting after and gave it to me. Leather bound and gold-leaf edged, it adorns my shelf and for the most part receives much gentler treatment than my other copy which was the text I ported to and from my Early and Later Shakespeare classes at university. With reams of notes on nearly every page and likely enough highlighter ink to drown a small child, I feel no shame in keeping one copy safe from my less than tender care.
In any case, I digress. The time for this post to meet its end has drawn near and I must away to fondle my lovely new books. I look forward to returning here (before the year is out) to enjoy my own inner monologue turned text.
Speaking of death, recently my Great Aunt died. I wrestled with myself a great deal about if I aught to put an uppercase "Evil" in front of that title. Generally fond of epithets but not actually one to speak ill of the dead(ish), I decided to add this explanation. In life she had good qualities, I'm sure. I just don't know what many of them are, primarily because any action on her part often ended relationships, either by her disowning another member of my family or by their refusal to ever speak to her again. Having met her relatively few times over the coarse of my life, I really can only operate on this evidence, which, obviously, has not been good.
What earthly reason could this be relevant in a blog which professes to have the focus of literature, you may ask. Well.
It turns out among the possessions she left behind, I was bequeathed a set of volumes. Beautiful little (each no longer than my hand) red volumes. Of Shakespeare. Which were published (no joke) in 1909. This actually took some work to find out, because they are old enough that not only was the copyright information in a slightly different place than I expected to look, but all notable numeric information was written in roman numerals. Hot. Damn. Hot, squishy, flying DAMN!!
For any who know me well, this windfall will be accompanied with raised eyebrows and a general understanding of the whirlwind of emotions currently at war within me. Firstly I do admit I feel some guilt at gaining so much (in my eyes) from the death of another person. I do guilt very, very well having been raised Catholic on one side and Jewish on the other. Woof. This emotion, I have to admit, was overridden quickly by excitement and avarice at the thought of gaining another (Yes. Another. Not including this I actually have two of Willy's complete works. I'm not crazy... there are real reasons. I swear.) set of the bastardly Bard's works. This was followed immediately with a touch more guilt and then a desperate attempt to stem the flood of little exited squeaks that seemed to be leaking from me as I examined my lovely little books.
You see, I have a deep love-hate relationship with dear old Willy. Midsummer Night's Dream was the first bit of high literature I ever encountered, and although on occasion I'd like to exhume Bill and kick him in the genitals, I have such a deep and abiding love for his wordplay that I can do naught but hoard what I can. Demonstrated by the multiple copies I posses. One was a gift from my Stinky Man Thing. Generally Disgruntled, he really has got some lovely qualities (not the least of which, apparently, is sexcellent taste in books) he bought a copy that I had been lusting after and gave it to me. Leather bound and gold-leaf edged, it adorns my shelf and for the most part receives much gentler treatment than my other copy which was the text I ported to and from my Early and Later Shakespeare classes at university. With reams of notes on nearly every page and likely enough highlighter ink to drown a small child, I feel no shame in keeping one copy safe from my less than tender care.
In any case, I digress. The time for this post to meet its end has drawn near and I must away to fondle my lovely new books. I look forward to returning here (before the year is out) to enjoy my own inner monologue turned text.
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