Baroque (I think my sister already added this one, but it bears repeating), Rococo, tchotchke, chartreuse, magenta, periwinkle, erect, macaroon, vinegaroon, anemone, cochlea, evanescence (and I like the band, too-- one of my favorite songs of theirs is Call Me When You're Sober, which reminds me of a similar country song by a guy named Buck Jones, You Only Call Me When You're Drunk). And more words from Milan Kundera: paltry, paradigm, manifesto, vestibule, chrysalis, megalomaniac, narcissism, grotesque, ephemeral, and noxious. Kundera also mentions the French writer, François-René de Châteaubriand. The word Châteaubriand reminds me of a little story. Years ago, a young, kind of nerdy guy I worked with was telling me and another co-worker about his romantic Valentine's Day dinner with his girlfriend. He said he took her to an expensive steak restaurant. My co-worker asked him, "Did you have the Châteaubriand for two?" "No," he said, "we don't drink wine."
Now, indulge me for a moment. (Or feel free to skip this paragraph as it is boring to anyone but me.) One of my other favorite writers is Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Back in the late 80s to the mid-90s, I think I read every Milan Kundera and every Gabriel Garcia Marquez book available at that time. Yes, it took me several years. {I need to mention as an aside that one of my newer favorite (or should I say favourite) writers, Nick Hornby, mentions Kundera and Garcia Marquez, one right after the other, on two separate occasions; once in High Fidelity and again in How to be Good--which gave me all the more reason to appreciate Hornby.} Anyway, I'm trudging through this little 168-page Kundera book of literary criticism, and I run across this: "[T]hree Latin American writers came to Prague: [including] Gabriel Garcia Marquez… I spent an unforgettable week with them. We became friends. And just after they left I had the opportunity to read the Czech translation proofs of One Hundred Years of Solitude. . . . Garcia Marquez's novel is free imagination itself. One of the greatest works of poetry I know. Every single sentence sparkles with fantasy, every sentence is surprise, is wonder . . ." I never knew that they had met. I felt some sort of literary harmonic convergence at that moment and was reminded of my early passion for literature that began to fade with the birth of my children. Of course, taking care of kids doesn't leave as much time for reading, but that's not what quelled my passion. Instead, a child awakens a new passion incomparable to anything anyone could feel for even the most extraordinary work of literature. Suddenly, Shakespeare and Homer and even Ovid just didn't make my heart pound like before.
Now, if you have not fallen asleep (or if you indeed had the audacity to skip the previous paragraph) I will provide you with some important and useful weed-eating and leaf-blowing tips. Keep in mind that these things did not necessarily happen to me. And if they did, I would not necessarily admit it.
Things you should not weed-eat and why:
(1) big fat honking dandelion or dollar weeds, because they are juicy and will splatter all over your shins,
(2) any size pile of dog poop (especially fresh), because it tends to spray,
(3) any small oak saplings your husband may have wanted you to spare,
(4) the black foam air-conditioner-compressor hose cover, because you might inhale and choke on the particles or get a piece stuck in your eye,
(5) deer pellets (especially the hardened ones), because they can smack you in the kneecaps, and
(6) ant beds or spiders, for obvious reasons.
You may also want to keep your iPod headphone cord at a safe distance if you choose to leave the weed-eater running while you squat down to pick up your sunglasses if they fall off while you try to rub gasoline out of your eyes.
The leaf blower was much more fun. My only caveats on that:
(1) if you have allergies, be sure to take your medicine first,
(2) keep your shorts from getting sucked up into the air intake, otherwise it can give you an inconvenient frontal wedgie, and
(3) if the wind is blowing, it is futile to work against it.
And don't forget bug repellent and sunscreen.
It's after 1:00 a.m. now. I need to get some sleep before Katy wakes me up with her vomiting again. That's another of my many stories I'll try not to bother you with. Oh, by the way, I put a little video of her on YouTube, because I have no life and so much spare time in which to not live it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9_pYXBsT_M
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
I Need to Have a Few Words With You (Plus Bonus Weed-Eating Tips)
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2 comments:
seeing how your taste in music is generally hopeless (the go-go’s?!?), this comment is for your last post:
ok, one hundred years of solitude has a lyrical magic to its prose, but isn’t that really thanks to the translator, gregory rabassa? having read Camus in the original language, i can tell you that the english language editions vary greatly in their treatment of the book:
“Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas”, the famous, and simple, opening line from L’Etranger, has been translated at least 3 different ways in british and american texts. unless fluent in the native tongue (not to rub it in), one’s appreciation of these works is fully dependent on someone else’s take on it.
in any case, like with john lennon (don’t get me started on what a hateful, Godless, anarchistic piece of merde the song “imagine” is), as far as marquez, i cannot divorce the writer from his politics, since they clearly inform his plot and character developments. and as you know, ol’ Gabo is a stinking commie. he gets named to these human rights commissions, all the while puffing on cigars with pals castro and the former panamanian dictator torrijos up in the hacienda. if he really wanted to improve human rights he’d have put bullets in his commie buddies’ heads before they murdered millions of their proletariat.
not that i avoid reading all lefties- but give me Pynchon’s “Gravity’s Rainbow” or Eco’s “Foucault’s Pendulum” any day.
a few more for word nerd:
misanthrope
quid pro quo
hyperbole
sturm und drang
sycophant
brobdingnagian
Well, I published your scathing comment against my better judgment. I did change one word because I thought "merde" would be more "appropriate" and take just a tiny bit of the sting out of your vitriol. (There's a good one, vitriolic). I don't always care so much about politics and translations and all this high-minded frou-frah. Take off your smoking jacket and cravat and jodphurs for a minute, please. Chill, bro. Put on a wife-beater and smash a beer can on your head or something. Get some motor oil under those manicured nails, would ya? By the way, who are you to talk about taste in music, Mr. Iron Maiden Fan Club President?
And how can you be so cruel as to berate me at a time like this?? Don't you realize I am in mourning? Hello??? Jason just got voted off American Idol. Sure, he deserved it weeks ago, and I knew it was coming, but that doesn't ease my pain right now. I'll be in seclusion reading People magazine, drinking wine from a box, and watching trash reality marathons on VH-1 until further notice.
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