It's days like this that feel awful, really.

Link: The What Kind of Girl are You Test written by ramonaaronperez on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test View My Profile(ramonaaronperez)

Current Mood: amused

Some novels are ostensibly intelligent, but highly unenjoyable. On the other hand, some novels are highly enjoyable but ostensibly unintelligent.

Most "post-modern" (and I use this term with some degree of trepidation, of course) novels are guilty of being too intelligent without providing a modicum of readerly enjoyment. The result is usually something resembling a rather bizzare and esoteric porn movie, which turns no one on but the author himself and/or critics who applaud such intellectual wankery.

The problem with criticism is that its very existence relies on the "hidden depths" of a novel or poem. As such, as the industry gets more divorced from the texts it is reading and more entangled with the actual novelty of the ideas that the critic is pulling out of the book, texts become increasingly difficult and complex. Given that critics have the institutional authority to "correctly" judge a book it is no wonder that the writer who wants artistic recognition often gets too obtuse and narcisstic in producing something completely absurd. The critic, however, is not in the best of positions either. The dialectical nature of the relationship between the two industries ensures that critics, regardless of whether they like the intellectual wankery or think it's successful, can never get away with plain slagging off one of these pieces. The best a critic can hope to do with one of these books is to recognise the complicated strategies of the author in achieving X and Y aims, and argue that s/he ultimately fails because s/he is too annoying for his/her readership: this entails of course an admittance that the author has put X and Y strategies to produce Z, and one is never given the full satisfaction of saying "it's just shit".

The long-winded point of all this is, this book is one of the rare books I've read that seems to be as enjoyable as it is intelligent. It is readable in a way even the best modernist texts (which to me, ARE enjoyable, but often more intelligent than enjoyable, I have to say, eg Joyce) are not. I can easily say this is one of the cleverest books I've read, and one of the most enjoyable... there is no need for me to try to defend its obtuseness while explicating on its textual strategies, or something ridiculous like that.

SPOILER:
I am not sure, however, that the ending is even as optimistic as this guy: http://www.hewett.norfolk.sch.uk/CURRIC/english/resource/ishiguro/rodbutle.htm
might suggest. I don't think that Stevens's realisation that he must learn to banter does him any good, nor that he would eventually move towards escaping his chains. It seems to me that this text, perhaps because of the narrator's historical position, has much of the tone of "these fragments shored against my ruins". But the irony (let us recall this was written in 1989) prevents me from wholly seeing it that way.

The last part of the novel talks about the willingness to learn "bantering". The irony of the tale seems to be that Stevens has failed in this precisely because the restraint peculiar to his (extremely English) character prevents him from ever doing so. He envies the warmth in the modern generation, but he cannot achieve this unless he opens himself up emotionally. To banter, then, requires this, and not an almost studious "committment" (in his words) to learn the skills of bantering. As long as Stevens retains his emotional distance from everyone in his life, under the strict rubric of professionalism he so religiously adheres to, he'd never be able to achieve the end-result of bantering. Even if he learns the appropriate things to say, that critical distance (of wanting to have the right "propriety" towards others) ensures that he would always be emotionally distanced from others, forever looking in on the crowd from a distance, and scrutinising them in order to give the right response to make them feel at ease. The warmth might very well be genuine on the other side, but as long as Stevens retains this academic attitude towards bantering, the best he can feel is a professional satisfaction akin to the kind he felt when he proved his ability to go on working while his father was dying in the very same house.

As such, it seems to me that the novel might be saying something about human character in general. Stevens is an unfortunate product of his time and class -- it seems to imply we can never quite escape these constraints. His mini-epiphany is coloured, or disturbed, by the irony at the end of the novel. His whole narrative is only too aware of the fictionality of his own narration, and the narrator's power to censor or bias the narrative, not only to the reader but to himself. The habit of restraint is, then, too strong... Stevens cannot seem to break out of it.

It is also a harsh critique of old-skool Englishness at the most fundamental level, and a harsher critique of modernity at another. While the text allows us to feel enough distance between Stevens and ourselves, in that we feel he's too unemotional, too restrained, there is enough in Stevens that is like us today which allows us to sympathise, or even empathise with him to a certain extent (this creates a rather Joycean effect as far as irony is concerned). How many times have we heard the advice -- well intentioned no doubt -- to carry on in spite or despite of our feelings, because we have to? This particularly applies to jobs... the world is no longer tiny, but rather, industrialism and connectivity has made us have a sense of proportion, and distanced as much as it connects. One's sorrows become insignificant in the face of the vastness of the world, one's private trials are precisely just that, and the machine rumbles on without stopping for you no matter how you feel. You can either continue or take a day off, but what is certain is that the machine does go on working without you, that all your trials are very insularly your own. Stevens takes this to the extreme, where all his natural feeling is sacrificed to his professionalism. Of course we are not like him in that we have family and friends, and some of us have lovers, all of whom care, and whom we are close to, but it is silly to deny we do not face the same pressures that he puts on himself (one might say his pride is the kind of pride one would feel if we could carry on working if struck by some traumatic event... professional pride.)

Perhaps this sort of comparison is wrong or frivolous. But it seems to me that if this comparison to modernity is silly because the focus is on Englishness, one could perhaps dispute the boundaries between the traditional and the modern that the novel itself seems to set up through Steven's narration. The novel then questions the boundaries between the modern and the traditional, as well as the "post" in "post-colonial", where the enduring trace of Englishness perhaps, is to be found still in a world that is increasingly thought to be without boundaries. Or perhaps, and I think this is where I finally lean towards, it shows us that our attitudes haven't changed ALL that much, that the rhetoric of change is overemphasised and overglorified in today's discourse... not by directly critiquing today's values but by critiquing yesterday's values and forcing us to admit there is more of that in us than we think, just in a different form.

But it is this peculiar mix of the empathetic and the alien that Stevens represents that makes him the ideal mirror for ourselves. We find that which is admirable doubly so, and that which is pitable similarly intensified. As such Stevens serves as the warning to us not to become too extreme in rushing at the breakneck pace that society asks us to do. It is tempting, but the human cost is, perhaps, a bit too much.

Current Mood: melancholy

I really like this but it's a bit crap lyrically. Make that VERY crap lyrically. Portishead have never been the best lyricists... but it is very disappointing to google and find the glorious Threads with its vodacoded? lines of 'I'm always so unsure' found in a terrible lyrical context.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=igRvZ46Gc4w

If anyone bothers to listen, there's this fantastic outro that sounds very, very much evocative of wandering around dark alleys with too much cigarette smoke. The vocal layering here is great, it kinda echoes (literally!) the sentiment of 'unsure', slowly hollowing the self out, taking the ontological certainty in a human voice right out.

But when you get to the lyrics you find this:

http://lyricwiki.org/Portishead:Threads

Which is uninspiring to say the least. The song is much denser than that, in terms of texture and sound. One would expect -- because the music itself evokes these images -- Portishead are tellingly, from Bristol -- this kind of tiredness to be linked to the social scene perhaps, of a series of small seedy clubs with jazz singers with lonely eyes, filled with sofas that are just beginning to show their stuffing. It's more than 'my mind' at stake, and the music does evoke this. There is something to be said about this state of ennui and uncertainty, or there should be; this state of loneliness is not just an insular thing, as her lyrics imply.

Barring this 'emo' content, the style -- lyrically -- also leaves much to be desired. I don't get the feeling of disjointed honesty, I get cliche. 'Worn out, tired of my mind' aren't exactly the most inspiring lyrical choices Ms. Gibbons could make. It's something you could find on a 15 year old's blog, which really doesn't do the song justice.

At 34, Gibbons is way too old to write lyrics like this:

http://lyricwiki.org/Portishead:Magic_Doors

If Damon Albarn could write "there's no other way, all that you can do is watch them play" at around 23, I don't see why she should be hanging around here. Obviously, I don't think it's wrong to feel this way, but the whole 'me me me me me' thing in the lyrics, 'I'm so emo and no one understands me' pisses me off.

And it doesn't do justice to the music!! I love the album, really, but I'm better off without the lyrics sheet...

I am so tired.

Current Mood: exhausted

What Lorraine Yang Zhenping Means

You are relaxed, chill, and very likely to go with the flow. You are light hearted and accepting. You don't get worked up easily. Well adjusted and incredibly happy, many people wonder what your secret to life is. You are well rounded, with a complete perspective on life. You are solid and dependable. You are loyal, and people can count on you. At times, you can be a bit too serious. You tend to put too much pressure on yourself. You are wild, crazy, and a huge rebel. You're always up to something. You have a ton of energy, and most people can't handle you. You're very intense. You definitely are a handful, and you're likely to get in trouble. But your kind of trouble is a lot of fun. You are usually the best at everything ... you strive for perfection. You are confident, authoritative, and aggressive. You have the classic "Type A" personality. You tend to be pretty tightly wound. It's easy to get you excited... which can be a good or bad thing. You have a lot of enthusiasm, but it fades rather quickly. You don't stick with any one thing for very long. You have the drive to accomplish a lot in a short amount of time. Your biggest problem is making sure you finish the projects you start. You are very intuitive and wise. You understand the world better than most people. You also have a very active imagination. You often get carried away with your thoughts. You are prone to a little paranoia and jealousy. You sometimes go overboard in interpreting signals. You are friendly, charming, and warm. You get along with almost everyone. You work hard not to rock the boat. Your easy going attitude brings people together. At times, you can be a little flaky and irresponsible. But for the important things, you pull it together. You are a free spirit, and you resent anyone who tries to fence you in. You are unpredictable, adventurous, and always a little surprising. You may miss out by not settling down, but you're too busy having fun to care. You are deeply philosophical and thoughtful. You tend to analyze every aspect of your life. You are intuitive, brilliant, and quite introverted. You value your time alone. Often times, you are grumpy with other people. You don't appreciate them trying to interfere in your affairs. You are incredibly wise and perceptive. You have a lot of life experience. You are a natural peacemaker, and you are especially good at helping others get along. But keeping the peace in your own life is not easy. You see things very differently, and it's hard to get you to budge. You are truly an original person. You have amazing ideas, and the power to carry them out. Success comes rather easily for you... especially in business and academia. Some people find you to be selfish and a bit overbearing. You're a strong person. You are influential and persuasive. You tend to have a lot of power over people. Generally, you use your powers for good. You excel at solving other people's problems. Occasionally, you do get a little selfish and persuade people to do things that are only in your interest.

I cannot describe the amount of shit I'm feeling now, physically, which is leaking onto the mental. The french and the studying.

some stupid sick feeling extending radially outwards...

tired and sick of work and this is not ending. I am not understanding. Evil, evil work. All so difficult.

Current Mood: tired

I don't know: perhaps it's a dream, all a dream. (That would surprise me.) I'll wake, in the silence, and never sleep again. (It will be I?) Or dream (dream again), dream of a silence, a dream silence, full of murmurs (I don't know, that's all words), never wake (all words, there's nothing else).

You must go on, that's all I know.

They're going to stop, I know that well: I can feel it. They're going to abandon me. It will be the silence, for a moment (a good few moments). Or it will be mine? The lasting one, that didn't last, that still lasts? It will be I?

You must go on.

I can't go on.

You must go on.

I'll go on. You must say words, as long as there are any - until they find me, until they say me. (Strange pain, strange sin!) You must go on. Perhaps it's done already. Perhaps they have said me already. Perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story. (That would surprise me, if it opens.)

It will be I? It will be the silence, where I am? I don't know, I'll never know: in the silence you don't know.

You must go on.

I can't go on.

I'll go on.

Je parle un peu francais. <_< Je voudrais comprehende Levinas et Derrida. Ils sont tres difficile. Les philosophers francais, ce sont merde. Peut-etre non.... Je deteste moi-meme. <_<

Current Mood: blank