treading
"If we look at the path, we do not see the sky."
-- Native American saying
So today has been a good day, I guess. Morning at the bookstore, then a haircut (have I ever mentioned how wonderful it feels to get one of these? Ecstasy!), then Blockbuster to return some movies--and, unexpectedly, to buy Unbreakable. Evo's for a free steakburger with some fries and a shake--and the only good thing was the shake. I suspect their other offerings are considerably better and that, should I return, I would be well-served to deviate from my usual culinary milieu (such as it is). Ate the lunch at Coffee Pot Park with a lovely view of the water, then took the "scenic drive" along Coffee Pot Boulevard into Snell Isle, where I ogled the big, pretty houses there.
I have very specific tastes in large houses. First, I hate most of the new ones, mostly because they seem to be really into superfluous pillars, the majority of which are twisted like those scary lollipops you can get at Disney World. I hate those pillars. Second, I dig houses that make use of interesting textures--like a little round brick tower in the corner between the house and garage, or waves of plaster, or square timber frames in a manner reminiscent of Mitteleuropa. Third, Interesting Architectural Details, like spiky dormers, little balconies with porch chairs, or outdoor staircases. Fourth, unabashed ostentation, like this one house I saw, which was unfortunately white-stuccoed but which had dark blue glass windows and a very massive and grand covered entry staircase leading up to metal doors that were punched in a sunburst pattern. Pimpin'. Fifth, deliberate imitation of a specific style, a favorite of which is the architectural elements found on Santorini, thick white plaster walls with little blue accents. A particularly fantastic example can be found on Longboat Key in Sarasota; a mansion there is almost blindingly blue and white. Such methods are uniquely suited to sunny locations on the water, particularly on a clear blue day.
And sixth: Complexity. I love complicated houses. Interminable hallways that get you mixed up, odd little rooms behind odd little doors, endless nooks and crannies with overstuffed armchairs and large windows, a few living rooms, a few decks, balconies all over the place where the best views can be had. If I ever grow wealthy enough to own a large house, my architect had better have a fine mind for detail.
The saying quoted above came from a short story by Charles de Lint, from an anthology that was one of two de Lint books I borrowed from my sister. I'm not necessarily a big fan of his work; he displays an overwhelming love of urban bohemia (slightly overrated, in my opinion; one should do what one wishes and not make a scene over scenes) and an unstinting pessimism regarding the associated crime rate, which he thinks is symptomatic of the larger world's decline, to say nothing of the effeminate streak gleaming among his endless paragraphs. Nothing wrong with that, but one grows tired of soft, dreamy women who find magic and the sternly protective men who have apparently never touched a football. What I do enjoy is the near-folkloric nature of much of his work, particularly the Amerindian elements he introduces (although he does seem to be strongly predisposed to Celtic folkways, he is writing about an American (or possibly Canadian) city)--such as the woman with birds in her head and the use of crows in many of his stories.
Anyway, this saying took me by surprise in Coffee Pot; I have a obscure obsession with paths, with finding them and walking them. The word "path" itself is one of my favorites, one of those perfectly shaped for its purpose. Like "orthodox" or "juxtaposition." At the same time, I find myself fixating on the sky, the vast spaces. It's the only truly long view that is available to anyone on Earth at any time, and such a proverb puzzles me; it seems to split both into a dichotomy, rendering the individual unable to observe both simultaneously. Treading the proper path is, to me, an ideal; if one focuses only on the sky, one will find that one has a tendency to plunge over precipices suddenly and without warning, resulting in a failure to see anything other than the sky as one's broken body lies dashed on the rocks below.
Far better, I feel, is this quote from Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell:
As I was searching for Jonathan Strange's words, I realized that I had no specific strategy for pinpointing what I was looking for. The Internet failed to give me anything; Google showed its first flaw. The book itself has no index, and its contents are dense with narrative, footnotes, asides, and interwoven subplots. Strange is a major character; a significant portion of the book is devoted to him and his experiences. What was I thinking? Was I going to have to put this post aside for a few days or weeks while I carefully reread the book until, in the middle of page 406, I found what I had been looking for? Several times, as I searched, that thought crossed my mind, and I realized, suddenly, that I knew, knew, with utter certainty, that I could find my quarry. Knew. I can't explain how I quickly winnowed through Strange's sojourns on the Continent against Napoleon under Wellington, the thistledown gentleman's seduction of Stephen Black and enchantment of the Lady Pole, Mr. Norrell's struggle against the coming revolution in English magic, Drawlight and Lascelles's dastardly plots, homing in on that one paragraph, that line of dialogue buried very nearly in the exact center of the book.
What is it? Have I imprinted on this book so deeply that though I can remember very little of a set of words other than their meaning, I can ferret out its hidden structure, folded away in some dark corner of my unconscious mind? Or is it something much more mysterious, the smell of the words, their shapes somehow slowly revealing their proper place in the larger text?
Truth is, I think I can do it with almost any book I've read more than once. I think anyone can, actually--and I've clearly been reading too much science fiction. Or Charles de Lint.
As for the rest of this post--well. I was going to go off on a tangent regarding proportional taxation and how the number of people paying taxes doesn't matter so much as it is how much money those people are making or the fact that some people don't seem to realize that if the wealthy don't pay high taxes, then the poor people are going to have to. The money's got to come from somewhere, after all.
But I won't. First because I was originally planning to go off on authoritarian surveillance societies, and how interesting it seems that the most popular target for classic dystopian novels--Brave New World, 1984--and current dystopian culture objects--V for Vendetta, Children of Men--tend to be set in Britain, and how the actual country seems to be fulfilling these semi-prophecies rather admirably, but it's been done before. Second because I'm going to have a bagel. Third because I'm going to watch Unbreakable and very likely Bones, and don't quite feel up to spending the rest of the day working on this post, as opposed to the last 7 hours. Fourth because this post is quite long enough already.
In conclusion, watch your step; it can be a doozy.
-- Native American saying
So today has been a good day, I guess. Morning at the bookstore, then a haircut (have I ever mentioned how wonderful it feels to get one of these? Ecstasy!), then Blockbuster to return some movies--and, unexpectedly, to buy Unbreakable. Evo's for a free steakburger with some fries and a shake--and the only good thing was the shake. I suspect their other offerings are considerably better and that, should I return, I would be well-served to deviate from my usual culinary milieu (such as it is). Ate the lunch at Coffee Pot Park with a lovely view of the water, then took the "scenic drive" along Coffee Pot Boulevard into Snell Isle, where I ogled the big, pretty houses there.
I have very specific tastes in large houses. First, I hate most of the new ones, mostly because they seem to be really into superfluous pillars, the majority of which are twisted like those scary lollipops you can get at Disney World. I hate those pillars. Second, I dig houses that make use of interesting textures--like a little round brick tower in the corner between the house and garage, or waves of plaster, or square timber frames in a manner reminiscent of Mitteleuropa. Third, Interesting Architectural Details, like spiky dormers, little balconies with porch chairs, or outdoor staircases. Fourth, unabashed ostentation, like this one house I saw, which was unfortunately white-stuccoed but which had dark blue glass windows and a very massive and grand covered entry staircase leading up to metal doors that were punched in a sunburst pattern. Pimpin'. Fifth, deliberate imitation of a specific style, a favorite of which is the architectural elements found on Santorini, thick white plaster walls with little blue accents. A particularly fantastic example can be found on Longboat Key in Sarasota; a mansion there is almost blindingly blue and white. Such methods are uniquely suited to sunny locations on the water, particularly on a clear blue day.
And sixth: Complexity. I love complicated houses. Interminable hallways that get you mixed up, odd little rooms behind odd little doors, endless nooks and crannies with overstuffed armchairs and large windows, a few living rooms, a few decks, balconies all over the place where the best views can be had. If I ever grow wealthy enough to own a large house, my architect had better have a fine mind for detail.
The saying quoted above came from a short story by Charles de Lint, from an anthology that was one of two de Lint books I borrowed from my sister. I'm not necessarily a big fan of his work; he displays an overwhelming love of urban bohemia (slightly overrated, in my opinion; one should do what one wishes and not make a scene over scenes) and an unstinting pessimism regarding the associated crime rate, which he thinks is symptomatic of the larger world's decline, to say nothing of the effeminate streak gleaming among his endless paragraphs. Nothing wrong with that, but one grows tired of soft, dreamy women who find magic and the sternly protective men who have apparently never touched a football. What I do enjoy is the near-folkloric nature of much of his work, particularly the Amerindian elements he introduces (although he does seem to be strongly predisposed to Celtic folkways, he is writing about an American (or possibly Canadian) city)--such as the woman with birds in her head and the use of crows in many of his stories.
Anyway, this saying took me by surprise in Coffee Pot; I have a obscure obsession with paths, with finding them and walking them. The word "path" itself is one of my favorites, one of those perfectly shaped for its purpose. Like "orthodox" or "juxtaposition." At the same time, I find myself fixating on the sky, the vast spaces. It's the only truly long view that is available to anyone on Earth at any time, and such a proverb puzzles me; it seems to split both into a dichotomy, rendering the individual unable to observe both simultaneously. Treading the proper path is, to me, an ideal; if one focuses only on the sky, one will find that one has a tendency to plunge over precipices suddenly and without warning, resulting in a failure to see anything other than the sky as one's broken body lies dashed on the rocks below.
Far better, I feel, is this quote from Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell:
This was found on page 406 out of 846, incidentally, of my paperback copy. It is rather interesting to note that I had no idea of the quote's context and had to go hunting for it. It took less than ten minutes, in spite of my misremembering its phrasing. In order to find it again later if I wish, I just added a note. I have an urge to re-read the entire book once again, this time adding annotations and marginalia, something I do very, very rarely. It isn't that I have so much respect for books that I don't wish to mar them; in fact, I strongly encourage the reader's interaction with the text and the habit of leaving a record of this intercourse. One of my favorite things is to come across a used book in a bookstore that has had comments and notes scribbled on its pages; it lends a fascinating coloration to the book's printed contents. I just never feel as though I have anything sufficiently substantive to commit to paper."Where?" Sir Walter was surprized; there was no place he found so much to his liking as London with its gaslights and its shops, its coffeehouses and clubs, its thousand pretty women and its thousand varieties of gossip and he imagined it must be the same for every one.
"Oh, wherever men of my sort used to go, long ago. Wandering on paths that other men have not seen. Behind the sky. On the other side of the rain."
As I was searching for Jonathan Strange's words, I realized that I had no specific strategy for pinpointing what I was looking for. The Internet failed to give me anything; Google showed its first flaw. The book itself has no index, and its contents are dense with narrative, footnotes, asides, and interwoven subplots. Strange is a major character; a significant portion of the book is devoted to him and his experiences. What was I thinking? Was I going to have to put this post aside for a few days or weeks while I carefully reread the book until, in the middle of page 406, I found what I had been looking for? Several times, as I searched, that thought crossed my mind, and I realized, suddenly, that I knew, knew, with utter certainty, that I could find my quarry. Knew. I can't explain how I quickly winnowed through Strange's sojourns on the Continent against Napoleon under Wellington, the thistledown gentleman's seduction of Stephen Black and enchantment of the Lady Pole, Mr. Norrell's struggle against the coming revolution in English magic, Drawlight and Lascelles's dastardly plots, homing in on that one paragraph, that line of dialogue buried very nearly in the exact center of the book.
What is it? Have I imprinted on this book so deeply that though I can remember very little of a set of words other than their meaning, I can ferret out its hidden structure, folded away in some dark corner of my unconscious mind? Or is it something much more mysterious, the smell of the words, their shapes somehow slowly revealing their proper place in the larger text?
Truth is, I think I can do it with almost any book I've read more than once. I think anyone can, actually--and I've clearly been reading too much science fiction. Or Charles de Lint.
As for the rest of this post--well. I was going to go off on a tangent regarding proportional taxation and how the number of people paying taxes doesn't matter so much as it is how much money those people are making or the fact that some people don't seem to realize that if the wealthy don't pay high taxes, then the poor people are going to have to. The money's got to come from somewhere, after all.
But I won't. First because I was originally planning to go off on authoritarian surveillance societies, and how interesting it seems that the most popular target for classic dystopian novels--Brave New World, 1984--and current dystopian culture objects--V for Vendetta, Children of Men--tend to be set in Britain, and how the actual country seems to be fulfilling these semi-prophecies rather admirably, but it's been done before. Second because I'm going to have a bagel. Third because I'm going to watch Unbreakable and very likely Bones, and don't quite feel up to spending the rest of the day working on this post, as opposed to the last 7 hours. Fourth because this post is quite long enough already.
In conclusion, watch your step; it can be a doozy.
posted by Hugh VanDerGoetz at
6:36 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home