inthelouvre.org

Fiction

Sometimes I ask myself: “How can it be worth anything if it’s not real?” “It” being any number of things that I once thought was so amazing but which turned out to be completely fake, such as friendships, love, ideas, et cetera.

My initial response is: “It’s not.”

But then I think about fiction and how much I appreciate good literature. I think about how it gets me through life, how it teaches me about worlds outside of my own, how it changes me. My realization from these thoughts, given specific examples (today I was thinking about The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien), is that imaginary things usually mean more than real things.

I’ve been betrayed and I feel as though everything I put into that part of my life wasn’t necessary, because maybe it was never real. But even so, even if it was just an imaginary thought made up of imaginary feelings, it probably will mean more in the grand scheme of my life than any factual events that might happen. Fiction books have a greater impact on my life than do nonfiction books. Perhaps the same is true for life: Imaginary thoughts, such as the stories I make up or the effort I put into something, mean more to me than going to work in the morning or receiving nothing in return. I would rather it all be worthwhile than to pretend like it didn’t mean a thing.

It meant everything to me.

Albert Camus - The Stranger

When I first started reading this book, I thought it was poorly translated. The story itself seemed to be very interesting, whever it was going, but the translation didn’t seem to complement it so well. However, as I continued, I realized that the reason I couldn’t put it down was not entirely because of the story - as in most cases, it’s usually the style of writing. There have been quite a few times when I simply haven’t been able to close the book until it was over, and not because the story was so incredibly invogorating and intriguing. It was usually the style of writing. It wasn’t poetic and intricate and beautiful, but it fit. This is a story about a man who is indifferent to almost everything, and having a style of writing that illustrates that indifference could not have been pulled off any better.

I must have gotten really into this book at some point, because while the main character Meursault was on trial, I found my internal monologue practically shouting for him to lie, to say certain things that would at least prevent the death penalty. Say that you didn’t have an indifference to your mother’s death; say instead that she wanted you to go out and have fun and improve your life after she was gone. Don’t say that it didn’t make any difference how you were at her funeral, say instead that this calm, reserved state is just how you handle grief, that inside you were bawling but how could you be expected to act such a way in front of a bunch of strangers? Instead of saying that you simply “couldn’t take care of her any longer,” say that you knew she would have been happier in a home, with friends, and others of her age with similar interests… I was saying these things, but he wasn’t thinking them.

I wanted him to shout it out, though, because I too felt like he didn’t have a say in his own trial, that trials always seem to be entirely too third-person, that the persecuted is never able to defend himself; he has to instead rely on everyone else’s opinion of him.

I wanted him to show remorse, even if it was just for the fact that he’d never feel a woman’s touch again. I wanted him to outwardly show all the right emotions, even if inside they were for other things. I realized, though, towards the end, that it was the complete opposite. He was thinking of his mother, always, in a way that could hardly be called indifferent. Sure, he wasn’t recounting all the emotional aspects of their relationship, but he was thinking of advice she had given, of the times she had said something that only now applied to his life. I do this all the time and it’s because I respect and appreciate the concern my parents always had for me. Even if he didn’t have the ability to shout to the roof tops that he loved her, he did anyway.

It is a rather exceptional title for this book. Despite that I can see these traits in him, and despite that the entire book was narrated first-person and from his point of view, one is still left with a feeling of indifference. By the end, it seems only natural that he’ll probably be executed for what he did, even though earlier, inside, I was crying out for his welfare. Even though I know it wasn’t premeditated and the trial seemed a little unfair, it all spanned out in a perfectly logical way and it only makes sense that this would be the outcome. I don’t know him.

What I love most about this book, however, is the effect it has on the reader, or in any case, the effect it had on me as a reader. I wouldn’t be able to say if it would have the same effect on any other reader, but I would still recommend it because of this happenstance. You go through a lot of emotions but eventually end up as unattached as he is.

At first you don’t know what to make of it, but by part two, you’re on his side and defending him to the very thread of your being. Nothing particular caused this. He didn’t say something that made you like him more; you just seemed to gradually become his best friend. However, as you get closer to the end, you find yourself thinking more and more in his terms: yes, he’s probably right, this was probably inevitable; or yes, he is guilty, he does deserve this. I think it’s that last speech that really detatches the reader from him, and it doesn’t make you wonder if his appeal panned out or if he really was taken to the guillotine. You close the book knowing that he was a stranger to all the characters and to you, and the story is over. It really doesn’t matter if he lives or dies.

My edition is hardcover and 123 pages, probably not even the length of a NaNoWriMo novel (if you guess about 400 words per page, you get 49,500 words for the book), and yet it takes you across the spectrum and back again. Beautifully accomplished.

Patrick Süskind

Today I finished reading a book that took $200 from the owner. I don’t feel particularly priviledged having read it, because a book is just a book, no matter how much it costs. Poorer written books may cost more simply because they were written by such “classics” as Jane Austen. That is to say: The quality of writing has nothing to do with the cost of the book. Look at James Patterson hardbacks as an example.

It was a really amazing book, though. I’ve now read all of Patrick Süskind’s publish books, and I still only own two of them. It’s usually a much more odd feeling to be content that I don’t own books that I have read. I like to have them in my library to re-read at a future date, if I enjoyed them. However, with Süskind’s books, it doesn’t feel quite so unusual that I’m not running out to spend all my money to purchase them. Maybe it’s because I’m practically broke at the moment with the knowledge that at least three of his other books will cost me about $150 each. I don’t think that’s the reason.

I think the reason is that I’m so glad having had the opportunity to fall in love with the man’s wonderful writing; I’m more priviledged to have read the words at all, than to have read the words of a $200 book.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about an author before and I can’t seem to put into words exactly why I feel this way. For instance, Haruki Murakami instantly became one of my favorite authors based on one book: Kafka on the Shore so I rushed out and bought all his other books with the expectation that they’d all be just as brilliant. Patrick Süskind became one of my favorite authors after reading Perfume, and I didn’t rush to buy any of his other books; in fact, the other one I have was given to me by a coworker.

The Meaning of Life

A moment ago, I was sitting here thinking of the quotes to which I became very attached during my University studies in mythology. I was imagining a vibrantly green leafy tree with branches extending to the ends of the canvas flipped upside down to reveal an equally beautiful red and orange leafy tree with roots covered in spring’s leftovers. In my mind, it was the perfect illustration of these two quotes together:

As is the generation of leaves, so is that of humanity.
The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the live timber
burgeons with leaves again in the season of spring returning.
So one generation of men will grow while another
dies.

Iliad, Book 6, 146-150

You would have me be as one without prudence
if I am to fight even you for the sake of insignificant
mortals, who are as leaves are, and now flourish and grow warm
with life, and feed on what the ground gives, but then again
fade away and are dead.

Iliad, Book 21, 462-466

These are the reasons the poet’s words beat in my heart.

I sat down to paint this vision of life and death and I couldn’t get the blues right; the purples were too dark; the branches and roots can’t even be seen. It occurred to me that perhaps my interest in painting is just an interest. Though I have the one painting which I really enjoy and am always surprised came from my own fingers, I’m not a “painter.” Just as I don’t consider myself a “photographer” in the connotation that most people comprehend from hearing that word, I am not a “painter.”

I sighed, and then thought my last thought on the topic: “I’m not a painter or a photographer, that much is true, but I wonder: Am I a writer?”

I dream of writing a full book some day - more than the 50,000-word NaNoWriMo requirement - that is worthwhile and meaningful. I wonder if it will always be a dream. I feel more “at home” with myself when I’m writing, and I’m at least pretty good at the sort of similes which my most respected authors have perfected. When I write a story, or even just a fragment of a story, I feel as though I could have done better. However, when I paint, I feel as though that was the best I could do, and damn, it was awful. Perhaps if I focused less time on painting my ideas with colors, I could spend more time learning to detail my ideas with words. The combined quote life-and-death picture in my mind could be better on paper.

But would that make me feel more like a writer, or would I feel like I am trying too hard to feel like a writer?

Magazines and Water Bottles

So I was spending a nice, quiet evening on the toilet, reading a mystery novel and thinking, hm, this has been a pretty good day. I’ve been inside almost all day, in the air conditioning, reading and working on websites, generally doing things I ended up rather proud of. Then someone knocked on the door. My first thought was, “I’m on the toilet! I’m not going to get up!” Then they started jiggling the handle and my first thought morphed into my second thought which was, “Shit, it must be the maintanence guy.”

One of our bedroom windows is broken, so any day now I expect the maintanence guy to come and fix it while I’m in the shower or on the toilet or having sex or whatever else. He has a key to the apartment, so why wouldn’t he think, “oh, they’re not answering, they must not be home”? In order to save myself from this embarassment, I closed the toilet lid and answered the door.

First regret.

My second regret was when the guy standing outside the door asked for a water bottle and I gave him two, as he was very sweaty and standing next to an equally smelly girl.

I knew who they were. I knew the purpose of asking for the bottle of water. I’m sure some large percentage of Americans keep packs of bottled water in their home, and to them saying, “it’s really hot, could I trouble you for some water?” is the same thing as “I’m a scam-artist, could I trouble you for some money?” If you receive the water, you’ll probably at least be able to pique interest in what you’re selling, because you think you’re dealing with a sucker.

My intentions were all wrong; however, I still regret those bottles of water. Especially since she didn’t even touch hers, as if it was forbidden for her to be accepting the water at all.

He knew his script well. My favorite color is blue, I said, and right off the bat he shot out the words “loyalty,” “honesty,” and “laziness.” “Which ones of those apply to you most?” and I could only pick one. “What superpower would you most like to have? Have you ever been out of the country?” and here’s the kicker: “If you subscribe to one of these magazines, you will be able to send me out of the country.” Gee, thanks guy. I’d love to spend my hard-earned money to send you on a luxorious trip to London, so I can later pick up the scraps of what I have left and wonder why I wasn’t saving up for me to go to London.

I told him I was totally broke, and he said if I got a paycheck any time within the next month that it would be okay, as they don’t deposit the checks for at least two weeks. Right, but I’m still broke. All that money is going to bills.

And as soon as it became clear that I wasn’t going to help him out, I was given the cold shoulder. “I just can’t believe that you don’t trust us. I understand that you don’t think you have money, but it’s a small price to make some kids in a hospital happy. What can I do to make you trust us? Get you on the phone with my boss? I will do anything.” Again, clarity ensues, and he starts to walk away without even saying thank-you for the water bottle.

So I called him out on it. I congratulated him for his well-learned script, for his personable skills and for his ability to get a water bottle out of me, though I probably would have given the water to anyone who was sweating profusely at my door. I told him it was crossing the line when he asked to enter my apartment and that if he wants more sales, he shouldn’t be so quick to give the cold shoulder. Leaving in anger won’t guilt me to it; it’ll just make me annoyed that I even listened. Next time, you won’t be so lucky. I’ll slam the goddamned door in your face.

He listened intently and restated that it wasn’t a scam, not that I ever said it was.

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