Andy

Set up a mobile libraries charity aimed at increasing literacy in African countries.

i'm making a point out of posting at least 200 words of something every night because i am a lazy fat-ass who won't ever get anything done. :)

-shy smile- it's work in progress, i was thinking about writing something for the ed challenge on mibba since i read some interesting stuff bibliophagy lately and it somehow turned into something that has to do more with the old testament and stories and words than skinny girls, but whatever.
-
now it came to pass in the thirtieth year in the fourth month, in the fifth day of the month, as i was among the captives of self-enchantment by the river of somes, that the heavens opened, and i saw not visions of god, but of something much more perverse and compelling, and i looked, and, behold, a whirlwind came out of the dusty ceiling above the dizzy fan, a great cloud, and a fire unfolding itself, and a brightness was about it, and out of the midst thereof as the colour of amber, out of the midst of the fire, also out of the midst thereof came the likeliness not of four living creature bearing a pagan god's glory, but of a fleshy woman with clear emerald eyes and long curls of flaming hair pouring down her shoulders. her voice seemed to transpire through her immaculate skin, she radiated cold sounds that spread across the air in waves, in colors. she did not open her mouth, but she spoke to me. she called herself Miranda, a name proper for mirrors and wonders, but we both knew that was not her real name. she had no real name. she was not a real being, but a story i had made up.

there's more feeling and love in silvio rodriguez's politically mutilated songs
than in this whole album and in its I-am-against-authority theme.
love is just gentle, maniacal, blind, sorrowful,  not political.

so disappointing.


i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

it's never like the poems and songs, isn't it?

in this past month, i have devoured 9 novels (the life of hunger, the great gatsby, the virgin suicides, sentimental education, herzog, alexis, memoirs from the house of the dead, the hours, norwegian wood) not counting the two i couldn't finish (naked lunch and quo vadis), a book of short stories (the blue story), two novellas (the mysterious case of doctor jekyll and mr hyde and in vreme de razboi), a non-fiction book on the history of english literature, a philosophy of culture book (part of blaga's trilogy of culture -btw it was impossible to read T_T) and a midsummer's night dream and right now i am being devoured by thomas mann's magic mountain. i think. i can't remember ~exactly when i read those books. i just know it happened somewhat recently. or not so recently. magic mountain is screwing up my time perception. -shrug- anyway i felt the need to plunge into huge books with around 400 pages and into fast-paced books and books i would love. i like reading, so i read a lot, but then sometimes i need to read, it's like i'm thristy, i ~hunger for a good book and then things get tragic and i spend days doing nothing except for reading. 'tis all very lovely. i've slept a lot this past week because i have a cold and the medicines knock me out completely and then there was easter and i couldn't really read while at my grandmother because it'd just be really weird to sit alone and read while everyone else is either at church, or baking stuff, or getting wasted. -smile- i needed endless hypnotising novels that i could read fast, really really fast.

i finished amelie nothomb's the life of hunger in two or three hours last night. i wanted to finish the magic mountain first but i couldn't help myself. as i expected it, the novel was short, caustic, innocent and autobiographical. as i had not expected it, the chapter about anorexia itself lasts three pages and has a pathetic word count. it's like the author slaps you -ha, you fool, you thought this was going to be an angsty memoir about "battles" with eating disorders, well it's not. it's about the strange bibliophile daughter of a world class diplomate.- and it works.

mom's in paris. and she promised she'll buy me some books in french. i'm going to a latin translations contest next week and i have the day off tomorrow and most of next week's. 

by far the best book on food and hunger is arabian nights, i think i'll reread some of the stories this month.

in other news i'm making a point out of reading a lot of what antic (greek and latin) literature has to offer this summer, and i'm rather excited about it. i never really had the time to get into greek tragedy seriously or to read more/all of plato's dialogs. so. superexcitement. and since summer starts in may for me i'm starting on gilgamesh's epic, euripide's tragedies and the banquet and poetry by catul these days.

I've been thinking. I really love Flaubert's characters, not as much his plots -in all honesty and despite everything Zola says, Sentimental Education is boring. They just have something essentially human about themselves, they're all pathetic beyond repair, mediocre, confused -even Salammbo, or maybe especially Salammbo. When I open a book, especially if it's a really good book (a classic? oh that term has something snob about it), not an easy read, I expect to find something new about myself, a new shade of my personality/spirit, not an escape. Reading itself, the process of going over words is the escape, it's mindnumbing, it stops you from thinking about anything else, the books themselves, that's different. I love Emma Bovary, Salammbo, Matho, Charles Bovary, even Frederic Moreau and all his friends, but I wouldn't want to be any of them. I would perhaps want to take a peck at Salammbo's world -who wouldn't want to see 3rd century BC Carthage?- but that's it. I am already all those characters. I think our lives would be infinitely emptier and less humane if we didn't read. You just discover so many new selves in stories, feelings, identities, reactions, ideas of whose existence you had no clue. Yes, Flaubert's novels more than anything helped me complete my sentimetal education more than most other novels, their effect is comparable to that of Hesse's work.

I'm going to reread Madame Bovary now. I feel like rereading nowadays.

aw. currently I'm waiting for a -777 MB- version of the 70s adaptation of the Great Gatsby to finish downloading. I've spent the last two and a half hours trying to figure out a way to compress my 2.14 GB version into something under 2GB so that'd fit a normal stick. ;_; yes, I cried a little, it was so annoying. grrr. I can't do anything but bit my nails and wait. for. time. to. pass. by.
I'm giving a presentation on the novel tomorrow.
I hope that the movie will be interesting enough to distract everyone from what I'm saying, not that anyone'd listen to me anyway.
-sigh-

you know I really love this novel. I've read it twice integrally and parts of it three or four times. I've based projects on it.
it's not the little green light thing. the dreams. nothing of that sort. it used to be all that, but now it's not.
I've read books about Fitzgerald and Zelda, now it's all about them, their society, their damnation, the excess. the jazz and the champagne.
he's sweet in his hopelessness, Hemingway tries to make Zelda sound like a bitch but I like her too -how could I not take pity on someone who's psychotic?-
I do this with a lot of writers. I like their books out of pity. and then maybe it's more than that.
I like their books because their misery, knowing that they were real people, people who wrote because they needed to not because they were bored or for some other shallow reason makes me look at their books and try to find something to likable. I started to cry the other day while watching a documentary on Kerouac. but I cry at many things.
I have no idea what I'll say tomorrow. I really want to talk about the 20s as an age, as a way of life, I'll go from there.

I didn't want to talk about Gatsby, though.
I've read this short story by Borges a few days ago, it was called El Aleph. and what I found stunning was not the aleph itself -an aleph is a point that contains all points in the universe, somewhat like a magic mirror, read the story- but the fact that Dante, Beatrice and Borges are the main characters. in a way, a little. he is named Daneri and she's named Beatriz. he's a poet and she's dead. the resemblances are obvious. Borges  often put himself as a character in his stories the same way Dante was the main character of his. then the story is bitter, Borges is mean to Daneri and the poet is vain and melodramatic. Borges-the author mocks the great poet as he often mocks himself. it is my theory that Borges was secretly jealous of Dante for his love, the same way Dante the writer was jealous of Francesca in Inferno. Beatrice is firstly a salvation, not carnal love, actually their love is spiritual by definition, they barely see each other. so Dante is jealous of the couple, although their love had brought them ethernal damnation, not even hell can separate them. Borges on the other hand was jealous because he never experienced that kind of love, the one that saves you, he only fell in love in his old age.

there is an other beatrice that I can think of - Rosetti's wife. Elizabeth. the pre-raphaelities' muse.
I wonder if she brought him salvation. maybe this time she needed to be saved and he failed.

now I wonder if Dante scared the original Beatrice. it would've scared me. a little. only a little. that kind of intense love can be nothing but scary when it comes only from one side.
three days until easter break. :)

Nothing happened today, I swear. :/

Reading Perks of Being a Wallflower made me want to write book reports. I do write some for school and I like coming up with thesis as different from the conventional ones as possible, but I never really had a teacher that was cool enough to ask me to write reports on anything not in the curriculum. And currently, the curriculum contains solely Romantic poetry [which is fine, up to one point]. On the other hand I wish I had the willpower to gather and sort information, I like books, I think things about books, I tell people about books, I come to interesting conclusions, I can rarely bring myself to write them down. :/

When I was around 3 or 4 I used to travel by train with my mom a lot. Maybe not that much, but it's one of the few things I remember doing when I was little so I assume I did it a lot. I loved it, I loved the people that I met and just the feeling, the special occasion. I remember that mom read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz to me on a few of those trips, I don't remember her reading anything else to me, I don't know if she read many books to me and I only liked the Wizard or if she just read that one. In February I bought an extra-cheap Penguin Popular Classics copy of the book [the type with green covers and recycled paper] and started to carry it around in my school bag as a book to read when I have only a few minutes to waste. I finished it yesterday morning. I didn't recall most of the plot, just the basics, I guess that made the story more interesting and intriguing.

While the story is catchy and I did like the plot, somewhat, but it disappointed me once I looked at it in comparison with other children literature classics. Firstly, Dorothy seems ...empty, she's just an empty character, half of the savor of Alice in Wonderland is Alice's character itself, the way she feels, thinks and acts, Dorothy never feels anything but standard emotions. Then the author -in an effort to mirror folk stories, I'm assuming- keeps repeating words and phrases, it gets tiring after a while. That and some unnecessary or cliche episodes. It's a nice story nonetheless, I would've stopped reading it if it weren't.

The Wizard of Oz is -indisputably?- the most read American children's tale and it had a big effect both American and world popular culture. Its popularity is partially due to the 1939 MGM movie- arguably the most watched movie in history. L. Frank Baum wrote 13 sequels [and I'm debating purchasing some of them, I'll probably end up wasting my money on something else, though]. Some say that the story is -just?- a parable meant to put Populism is a good light. I'm not denying the fact that Baum's opinions impacted his work and that he couldn't have written a story that'd contradict his views, but to write a political manifesto in a children's book seems to me pointless.

I'm watching the movie tonight. Since I remembered seeing it before I was shocked to read that the magic slippers were silver not ruby-red. At the moment I'm battling Hemingway's For Whom The Bell Tolls, I don't think I'll pick up another of his book for some while, maybe I'll finish Naked Lunch.

p.s. 1900 illustrated edition

I am a relic at the bottom of the antic ocean. of my bones are coral made; those are pearls that were my eyes: nothing of me that doth fade but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange. my dreams take the form of endless azure waves and dim sounds, nothing but green-bearded ghosts visit me in them. I can’t remember the summer sky, its cold stars nor its silver breeze. I am forgotten and I am as old as the ocean.

the title doesn't have anything to do with anything.
I just wanted something to make me happy.
my wearyweary eyes look too awful.

"Farewell, farewell, O warrior brave,
Nobody can from Death thee save."

I've been thinking about The Steadfast Tin Soldier story all afternoon.
about the things he must've thought of as he fell, about how infinitely alone he must've felt, and about the fantastic dreams he could've had there, he most certainly imagined being happy with his dancer, reigning together in a  palace underwater, the creatures, ghosts and derelicts he might've seen, that must've contaminated his reveries, how frighteningly  enchanting the whole sight was.

Yes, I'm more nice and happy online than in real life.
there's no need to be mean or upset here.
I can just close the window.

it's simply not fair. to them Perseus said, "you'll have plenty of time to mourn, but the chance to do some good is a brief one. I seek your daughter's hand. I am Perseus, son of Jupiter and she who though imprisoned Jupiter filled with golden seed; I am Perseus who overcame the snake-haired Gorgon and who dares to wing his way through the windy skies on swift-beating wings."For my past merits alone I should have preference over other suitors, but in addition I propose to offer your daughter's life as my bride price. If with the help of the gods I succeed, I will enjoy her whom my courage has preserved." they end up together for eternity. Perseus and Andromeda, the gods cast them as stars on the night's sky. they are together forever and ever and ever. so. Andromeda is chained to a rock in the middle of the ocean and awaits for a sea-monster to come and devour her. but Perseus comes along flying, he's just killed Medusa.  and he asks her who she is. and she can't stop crying. instead of breaking the chains or murdering the monster then Perseus turns away and to find the girl's parents. and to ask them for her hand in marriage. the parents accepted his offer -was there any doubt that they would?- with prayers of thanks and a promise of the kingdom as a dowry to accompany her. only then he goes back to save her.

bastard.

and they end up together forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever.

it is simply not fair.

I'm so tired. >>_>>

Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh,

4 June 1888

One night I went for a walk by the sea along the empty shore. It was not gay, but neither was it sad - it was - beautiful. The deep blue sky was flecked with clouds of a blue deeper than the fundamental blue of intense cobalt, and others of a clearer blue, like the blue whiteness of the Milky Way. In the blue depth the stars were sparkling, greenish, yellow, white, pink, more brilliant, more emeralds, lapis lazuli, rubies, sapphires. The sea was very deep ultramarine - the shore a sort of violet and faint russet as I saw it, and on the dunes (they are about seventeen feet high) some bushes Prussian blue.

11 August 1888

When you are well, you must be able to live on a piece of bread while you are working all day, and have enough strength to smoke and to drink your glass in the evening, that's necessary under the circumstances. And all the same to feel the stars and the infinite high and clear above you. Then life is almost enchanted after all. Oh! those who don't believe in this sun here are real infidels. Unfortunately, along with the good god sun three quarters of the time there is the devil mistral.

9 July 1888

It certainly is a strange phenomenon that all the artists, poets, musicians, painters, are unfortunate in material things — the happy ones as well — what you said lately about Guy de Maupassant is a fresh proof of it. That brings up again the eternal question: is life completely visible to us, or isn't it rather that this side of death we see one hemisphere only?

Painters — to take them only — being dead and buried, speak to the next generation or to several succeeding generations through their work.

Is that all, or is there more besides? In a painter's life death is not perhaps the hardest thing there is.

For my own part, I declare I know nothing whatever about it. But to look at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots of a map representing towns and villages. Why, I ask myself, should the shining dots of the sky not be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France? If we take the train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star. One thing undoubtedly true in this reasoning is this: that while we are alive we cannot get to a star, any more than when we are dead we can take the train.

So it doesn't seem impossible to me that cholera, gravel, pleurisy & cancer are the means of celestial locomotion, just as steam-boats, omnibuses and railways are the terrestrial means. To die quietly of old age would be to go there on foot.

Now I am going to bed, because it is late, and I wish you good night and good luck.

There is a kind of lazy pleasure in useless and out-of-the-way erudition.
J.L. Borges

Yes there is.
I have to write a paper on "Nature in Literature and Arts" for my Science class, I'm going to write about stars.
At first I wanted to make a sort of historic, social history of astronomy, but that would be something much too long and elaborated - I have less than a week to finish the essay, instead I'm going to write about different stories about stars. I already know I want to write about stars in Greek and Roman mythology- heroes being turned into stars, the star in Dante's Divine Comedy and van Gogh's starry skies. I have a few other ideas, something connected with the star of Bethlehem or Aristotle's spheres. It's going to be fun.
I forgot to do the other Science essay and thus got an 8 -which messed up all my grades. This is going to make up for it.

I really haven't posted in over a month? I thought it had only been a week.
nothing's changed since last time.

are you thinking of him?
I just wanted you to know
that the world is ugly
but you're beautiful to me.

are you happy now?

-
I've started to collect quotes and lines about stars. I really want to start a collection of something. make an atlas with bright huge pictures.

Shimmering-throned immortal Aphrodite,
Daughter of Zeus, Enchantress, I implore thee,
Spare me, O queen, this agony and anguish,
     Crush not my spirit

with Valentine's Day & Dragobete on the way I've been looking through love stories and how couples are depicted in art -both ecriture and visual art-. I'm also reading love novels- I've just finished Salammbo by Flaubert, the golden, exotic fits the atmosphere in Klimt's paintings so much I can't believe I didn't realized it as I read. At the core of the book lies love- a dark violent kind of love, perverted and mystic at the same time. Matho loves Salammbo, sometimes, other times he wants to strangle her. Salammbo wants to kill Matho, sometimes, other times she wants to love him. Between their sickening love, the rest of the story grows, Salammbo is the daughter of Hamilcar the leader of Carthage's army who is at war with the mercenaries lead by Matho [but only formally, as his slave controls both him and the whole army]. Everything is held together with a mix of gold dust and blood. Matho steals the zaimph -the symbol from Moon Godess who protects Carthage- and Salammbo has to go to the mercenaries' camp to get it back.


She felt as if she were leaning on the might of the gods; and looking at him face to face she asked him for the zaimph; she demanded it in words abundant and superb.

Matho did not hear; he was gazing at her, and in his eyes her garments were blended with her body. The clouding of the stuffs, like the splendour of her skin, was something special and belonging to her alone. Her eyes and her diamonds sparkled; the polish of her nails continued the delicacy of the stones which loaded her fingers; the two clasps of her tunic raised her breasts somewhat and brought them closer together, and he in thought lost himself in the narrow interval between them whence there fell a thread holding a plate of emeralds which could be seen lower down beneath the violet gauze. She had as earrings two little sapphire scales, each supporting a hollow pearl filled with liquid scent. A little drop would fall every moment through the holes in the pearl and moisten her naked shoulder. Matho watched it fall.

"The Kiss" is probably Klimt's most well known painting. I love it because once you look at it carefully you start wondering, start pondering- what kind of kiss is this?

The thing is that this is not the first time Klimt paints this love scene. He has an other painting - "Water Serpents I" [there's an other "Water Serpents", I personally like the second a bit more, for completely subjective reasons, of course] that is in many ways identical to "The Kiss".

Klimt rarely painted men, and even when he did they were almost always entangled in a woman's arms, instead he painted the narcissistic world of lesbian love, lovers lost between flowing streams, flowers and long golden locks. But Klimt didn't only paint women, he painted them naked first and then painted the clothes above them.

The two water-nymphs pulled in a close embrace are alive. They're caught for one -euphoric?- moment on the canvas but there's always a memento mori hidden somewhere.
 
Back to "The Kiss", the painting is a love declaration.
The two models used for the work were Klimt himself and his beloved Emilie Floge. She abandons herself in his arms.

But still, is he seducing her, or is she just letting herself be seduced?

She still dominates the canvas, as a shower of golden light falls over them.

yet, she's not smiling.

voila la vie.
on n'y voit rien.

qu'avez-vous vu?

j'ai vu le chant du soleil et toutes les lumieres de la mer.

I love how small our planet is.
all our errors, failures and heartbreaks are completely irrelevant on an universal scale.

it's okay.
c: