I do this when I should be doing other things, reading other texts, sometimes even as a reward for finishing unpleasant tasks.

Most other novels that I happen to be reading alongside with it suffer immeasurably which is unfair as who can compare to Forster, really? Especially with lines like these:

“Actual life is full of false clues and sign-posts that lead nowhere. With infinite effort we nerve ourselves for a crisis that never comes.” 

That is why I return to the story of the Schlegel sisters over and over.

Interestingly, the only other text I turn to repeatedly (not including poetry) is Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking - in fact, it’s usually out on a table somewhere so I can dip into it whenever the mood strikes. Which even I recognize is a bit much considering that Didion’s book is the heart-wrenching story of coping with her husband’s death. I have, thankfully, never had to deal with such overwhelming loss. When I get through the tears though, I’m usually just in awe of the writing that is Didion at her finest. Not to mention that their inspiring marriage could be read like a how-to-get-it-right manual. But that’s a post for another time.

The graph plots slowly and you can watch the spokes and buds shoot off as it grows, really quite magical. It’s absorbing to watch as the image blossoms – perfect for when you’re avoiding doing certain tasks.

Be sure to watch it to the end to get the full feel good effect!

And I fully agree with the writer’s sentiment that there should be a “moratorium put on certain words being used in the name of a novel: “Notes from”, “Letters from”, “Confessions of”, anyone’s ” … Daughter” or ” … Son”, anything involving quirky-but-annoying juxtapositions (“Searching for Tractors in Alaska During Ramadan”), anything lengthy and literal which rips off The Curious Case of the Dog in the Night-time …”

My current favourite title is from a book I’ve yet to read: The World More Full of Weeping by Robert J. Wiersema. The cover is stunning as well and really evokes a sense of ephemerality. Wiersema’s title is a nod to Yeats’ The Stolen Child and so I’m interested to see what the connections between the two will be beyond the obvious missing child.

Eileen Li as Thomasina was wonderful as was Reid Vanier who played Septimus. These two really carried the play for me with the performance of the actors in the 19th century plot line surpassing those in the  modern day story.

I suspect I would’ve absorbed more of the play’s brilliance had I read the text beforehand – that tends to mean a great deal when watching such a complex play of ideas.

If you’ve ever wondered what “fractal geometry, the Second Law of Thermo-dynamics, iterated algorithms, chaos theory, classical horticulture, gothic architecture, carnal embrace, and Lord Byron’s sex life have in common”, then be sure to check it out next weekend. Details here.

*Arcadia poster by Yen Chu.

It’s the 25th anniversary of White Noise this year. I  read it in 2009 and am still feeling pretty ambivalent about it. The overall absurdist tone appealed to me and I found the Gladney family hilarious. But the airborne toxic event section was a slog to get through and I lost interest and patience very quickly.
Here’s an audio file of some folks with wide-ranging opinions on the book slugging it out. Be warned, it’s long.

eye rhyme:

n. an imperfect rhyme in which two words are spelled similarly but pronounced differently.

I’m rereading it for a class this term and since this is the first time I’ve picked up my copy since moving back from England, I suspect living in London has numbed my ability to appreciate it. Perhaps the characters’ Englishness seems too plausible and everyday now? Perhaps the story is too domestic? Whatever the reason, I’ve lost patience with the constant interior monologues of Clarissa and company and endlessly being privy to their thoughts – there’s a weight to their lives, as though they were once real, and I’m overwhelmed by the sadness of it (I think we can all agree: it’s an incredibly sad book).

Also, I’m feeling lazy and however you read it, Mrs. Dalloway is a demanding book that requires your full attention.

At one time, I would have argued vehemently that it was the epitome of good fiction, timeless and without fault. Now I don’t know, but I trust in my past devotion to it. Who knows what the next reading of it will bring?

So, to mark another year, I resolve to do the following:

1. Read some poetry, everyday: I imagine this won’t be difficult (at least, not the first part).

2. Buy fewer books: This will be tough. Instead, I’m going to shop from my shelves and make a serious dent in my ‘to-read’ piles. There probably should be figures… the best resolutions employ figures, say, maybe limit my book-buying to one title a month? Not sure. I’ll work on that.

3. Be more present on this blog: I think you know what I’m referring to. Let’s just pretend it’s possible for now.

Wish me luck!