i had been renting dvds that, unintentionally, turned out to be rather british, like the english patient, being julia, closer, pride and prejudice. it was the last that got me pulling out austen's trope where i had left off a year ago and finished up the final bits. and because of that i'm very inspired to pick up dickens again. ahhh. past one week saw me on a novel rampage, finishing up in earnest winterson's oranges, the powerbook, rereading desultory bits of the passion and written on the body and reread her art objects in its entirety. when my mind's more settled i'll tackle art and lies. i tried reading it a month ago and i just couldnt get into it. also finished (finally) mrs dalloway in rather quick fashion, simultaneously reading her diaries. pulled out nabokov's lolita and started on it today - a most funny, sardonic book i must say - i think i'm gonna enjoy this one.
had browsed at kino earlier far longer than expected, lately zooming into (or starting from) 'W' for you-know-whos, and working my way down the alphabets. i went back to naipaul and after a long spell of wispy winterson; his lean, exacting and introspective prose (not to say ms winterson arent these, but she's different) offered ambivalent sentiments. i'm not so much into plots as themes now; in fact i think novels should abandon plots totally and simply focus on telling stories. it sounds contradictory but it isnt - stories and plots overlap but are not the same things. use language to tell a story, or use stories to elevate language? maybe it depends on which you prefer or privilege so it neednt be so stark but i am beginning to believe the obsession with 'plots' submerge both stories and language. if a story is internally coherent a plot-of-sorts will naturally follow. so its no wonder i'm not a fan of detective novels. where's the joy of reading about a murder if you already know one is going to happen? anyway, i should like to avail myself to more victorian and early 20th century works - somehow i never tire of the former, while the latter ones are a recently-acquired predilection.
the cafes in singapore are going mad. one has too much space indoors and too few tables, the rest are blasting music till kingdoms come. it's bad business sense and bad for my state of mind. so i wrote a note and before leaving, stuck it onto the coffee mug: please do select appropriate music and turn them down to suitable levels conducive for a confined place like this, so that the baristas would then have no need to compete with it and the expresso machines and shout atop their lungs above the din, making being in this establishment unpleasant, even intolerable. ohhhhhh yes i am allergic to noise.
and i loved mrs dalloway - i love virginia woolf:
.... they love life. in people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.
listen to her rhythm! poetic, dolce, and light; and the alliterative decrescendo - ...loved; life; London; this moment of June. it was vivaldi cascading on violins of words.
had browsed at kino earlier far longer than expected, lately zooming into (or starting from) 'W' for you-know-whos, and working my way down the alphabets. i went back to naipaul and after a long spell of wispy winterson; his lean, exacting and introspective prose (not to say ms winterson arent these, but she's different) offered ambivalent sentiments. i'm not so much into plots as themes now; in fact i think novels should abandon plots totally and simply focus on telling stories. it sounds contradictory but it isnt - stories and plots overlap but are not the same things. use language to tell a story, or use stories to elevate language? maybe it depends on which you prefer or privilege so it neednt be so stark but i am beginning to believe the obsession with 'plots' submerge both stories and language. if a story is internally coherent a plot-of-sorts will naturally follow. so its no wonder i'm not a fan of detective novels. where's the joy of reading about a murder if you already know one is going to happen? anyway, i should like to avail myself to more victorian and early 20th century works - somehow i never tire of the former, while the latter ones are a recently-acquired predilection.
the cafes in singapore are going mad. one has too much space indoors and too few tables, the rest are blasting music till kingdoms come. it's bad business sense and bad for my state of mind. so i wrote a note and before leaving, stuck it onto the coffee mug: please do select appropriate music and turn them down to suitable levels conducive for a confined place like this, so that the baristas would then have no need to compete with it and the expresso machines and shout atop their lungs above the din, making being in this establishment unpleasant, even intolerable. ohhhhhh yes i am allergic to noise.
and i loved mrs dalloway - i love virginia woolf:
.... they love life. in people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.
listen to her rhythm! poetic, dolce, and light; and the alliterative decrescendo - ...loved; life; London; this moment of June. it was vivaldi cascading on violins of words.
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