nirinia: (Default)
We sat through Question Hour in Stortinget (our Parliament) today, though I am feeling entirely too Christmassy to be eloquent, or even coherent, about it. And I have a craving to read Dickens, again. "A Christmas Carol", to be spesific.

Why in the name of everything holy am I in such a Christmassy mood?

And Bjørneboe's essay "Isteden for en forsvarstale" is a godsend, it will, I think, save me.


----

And, I can't help it, this joke is so sickeningly bad - groaning required, whether you get it or not - it must be shared:

"Q: What do you call an absinthe-flavored popsicle?
A: A Findesicle."
nirinia: (Default)
We sat through Question Hour in Stortinget (our Parliament) today, though I am feeling entirely too Christmassy to be eloquent, or even coherent, about it. And I have a craving to read Dickens, again. "A Christmas Carol", to be spesific.

Why in the name of everything holy am I in such a Christmassy mood?

And Bjørneboe's essay "Isteden for en forsvarstale" is a godsend, it will, I think, save me.


----

And, I can't help it, this joke is so sickeningly bad - groaning required, whether you get it or not - it must be shared:

"Q: What do you call an absinthe-flavored popsicle?
A: A Findesicle."
nirinia: (Default)
I've taken my leave of Dickens for the time being, and should really pick up me essay on "The Other Foot" again. But that doesn't seem to be happening anytime soon. French poetry on DA is actuely interesting in comparison, despite a few lingual difficulties.

But, my dilemma is back, what am I to read? Ellis, Greene, Faulks, Burgess, Woolf, Pratchett, Tartt or Hemingway?
nirinia: (Default)
I've taken my leave of Dickens for the time being, and should really pick up me essay on "The Other Foot" again. But that doesn't seem to be happening anytime soon. French poetry on DA is actuely interesting in comparison, despite a few lingual difficulties.

But, my dilemma is back, what am I to read? Ellis, Greene, Faulks, Burgess, Woolf, Pratchett, Tartt or Hemingway?
nirinia: (Default)
Today has been quite lovely. Got ut at around 9, after approximately an hour of reading Dickens in bed - page 243, and counting. Proceeded, post-breakfast, with making notes on the American electoral system, the parties, interest organisations, Presidential elections and a few lines on checks and balances (fondly christened "checks and fucking, or bloody, balances" by yours truly). Due to previous frustrations I now feel particularly accomplished on account of my most recent feat: I understood American Presidential Elections, by reading the woebegone explanation "Tapestry" offers on the subject. Applause, darlings?

And so, feeling all intelligent and confident, I went to school to sit through psychology. Most fruitless endavour of today, seeing how my teacher complained of a terrible headache - she was quite confident she would be going blind if she had to teach us - and informed us that she simply couldn't stand us today. Spent an entire 45 minutes there, and got home after an hour and a half's worth of break from the work.
Ended up skimming through the catalyst of my current situation - the "Module 2" project, my "On Outsiders" - yesterday, and I am vehemently annoyed at school in general, and Vigdis in particular. I wrote beautifully! And now it seems I'll never write that way again. God, I miss it! I miss my creativity; I wish I had Nabokovian promise and ability. I want to write again! I want to publish something, entirely void of point, and to stir people. And I want to write an afterword so irresistibly charming in its arrogance that no one dares analyse a word. (I sound like a spoiled brat, don't I? For, however little it may seem that way, I am horrendously grateful for the opportunity the school, and particularly my teachers, are offering me; I just wish it wouldn't be at the expense of my creative abilities.) I have a few wonderful paragraphs in there, the parenthesis - almost Nabokovian -, the wonderful flow of it all. - I feel like a Romantic, writing about his affection for children's innocence and how "we murder to dissect", orbed to the present and blended with a few cups of "emo".


I think Dickens is bad for me, he makes me long to write magical fiction. He makes me dream of writing like Nabokov did; of writing a Lolita of my own. Yes, Dickens is decidedly bad for me. Nabokov is worse, but they are both so gorgeous. Dickens admittedly a little tedious, and none too great with characters in shades of grey - he prefers them black, white or dis-coloured. And now I'm getting entirely off-track, I set out to write a short post, ending with a "bottom-lined" version of American Politics behind a gracfeul cut, to keep any poor readers from a very boring death, but it didn't quite turn out that way. Now I want to go see Beauty of the Beast or some other Disney movie. Anastacia, perhaps?

My French inabilities annoy me. I need to learn French. 5 years of lessons, and I can hardly compose a text. Much less a sentence without a dictionary. Learn French, or create the theatrical RPG I've been toying with lately?

PS: I can't believe I was compared to this woman on Saturday. If that is even close to how I come off when dressed up, I'll be utterly delighted. But then again, red lips tend to do peculiar things to people.

PPS: It's adorably windy outside tonight. Wind is generally great fun if it's not winter, and I'm not freezing several semi-vital body parts off.

This post has turned ridiculously and pointlessly long. And it is high time I end it. Perhaps I might one day rival Woolf on stream-of-consciousness?
nirinia: (Default)
Today has been quite lovely. Got ut at around 9, after approximately an hour of reading Dickens in bed - page 243, and counting. Proceeded, post-breakfast, with making notes on the American electoral system, the parties, interest organisations, Presidential elections and a few lines on checks and balances (fondly christened "checks and fucking, or bloody, balances" by yours truly). Due to previous frustrations I now feel particularly accomplished on account of my most recent feat: I understood American Presidential Elections, by reading the woebegone explanation "Tapestry" offers on the subject. Applause, darlings?

And so, feeling all intelligent and confident, I went to school to sit through psychology. Most fruitless endavour of today, seeing how my teacher complained of a terrible headache - she was quite confident she would be going blind if she had to teach us - and informed us that she simply couldn't stand us today. Spent an entire 45 minutes there, and got home after an hour and a half's worth of break from the work.
Ended up skimming through the catalyst of my current situation - the "Module 2" project, my "On Outsiders" - yesterday, and I am vehemently annoyed at school in general, and Vigdis in particular. I wrote beautifully! And now it seems I'll never write that way again. God, I miss it! I miss my creativity; I wish I had Nabokovian promise and ability. I want to write again! I want to publish something, entirely void of point, and to stir people. And I want to write an afterword so irresistibly charming in its arrogance that no one dares analyse a word. (I sound like a spoiled brat, don't I? For, however little it may seem that way, I am horrendously grateful for the opportunity the school, and particularly my teachers, are offering me; I just wish it wouldn't be at the expense of my creative abilities.) I have a few wonderful paragraphs in there, the parenthesis - almost Nabokovian -, the wonderful flow of it all. - I feel like a Romantic, writing about his affection for children's innocence and how "we murder to dissect", orbed to the present and blended with a few cups of "emo".


I think Dickens is bad for me, he makes me long to write magical fiction. He makes me dream of writing like Nabokov did; of writing a Lolita of my own. Yes, Dickens is decidedly bad for me. Nabokov is worse, but they are both so gorgeous. Dickens admittedly a little tedious, and none too great with characters in shades of grey - he prefers them black, white or dis-coloured. And now I'm getting entirely off-track, I set out to write a short post, ending with a "bottom-lined" version of American Politics behind a gracfeul cut, to keep any poor readers from a very boring death, but it didn't quite turn out that way. Now I want to go see Beauty of the Beast or some other Disney movie. Anastacia, perhaps?

My French inabilities annoy me. I need to learn French. 5 years of lessons, and I can hardly compose a text. Much less a sentence without a dictionary. Learn French, or create the theatrical RPG I've been toying with lately?

PS: I can't believe I was compared to this woman on Saturday. If that is even close to how I come off when dressed up, I'll be utterly delighted. But then again, red lips tend to do peculiar things to people.

PPS: It's adorably windy outside tonight. Wind is generally great fun if it's not winter, and I'm not freezing several semi-vital body parts off.

This post has turned ridiculously and pointlessly long. And it is high time I end it. Perhaps I might one day rival Woolf on stream-of-consciousness?
nirinia: (Default)
I've read Nabokov, and now I'm moving on to "Bleak House" and Dickens. "Laughter in the Dark" or "Kamera Obskura" is entertaining at times (particularly when he brings out the "Nabokovian parenthesis"), but too early a work to be truly good - unlike Lolita, he is not yet mature and in power, he has not yet perfected his abilities. I contemplated Sebastian Faulks, Emily Brontë (could do me well, school-wise, but who can be bothered to think tactically these last days of a break?), Pratchett and Tolstoy, but Dickens is the only thing I truly feel like reading. And so, Dickens it is. Until dinner-time, and post dinner it is reading-list ado.

A cold is good for something after all - though this particular one has seen it fit to deprive me of a great chunk of my House-weekend - it would appear (would anyone see it fit to enlighten me about commas in relation to hyphens, perhaps? They bother me, for there should really be one somewhere after "after all"): they justify a whole lot of laying about and doing absolutely nothing. I've finished both the wretched "The Things They Carried" - Nam veterans bothered by PTSD should really get in touch with a psychiatrist, and leave my poor art-form alone - and "Laughter in the Dark" and am starting a new book shortly. All in a few days. A MacBook Pro helps the laying about, too. I love it. Though it's not mine, if you really want to go into tedious detail, I lay claim to it most of the time. Beautiful machine. Yarg.

Nabokov is, by the way, terribly clever; he calls a decadent actress Dorianna Karenina. Ingenious. It is of course, just her stage name, but not only does he convey her as unsophisticated, stupid and vile when answering Rex that she has no idea who her last stage-name originally belonged to, he gives the reader an idea of her without using a single adjective or adverb. And that is a truly splendid art. I wish I could master it half as well as he.

PS. The be-darned "Location" box has a character limit. I'm almost offended. It was supposed to say "Lavishly surrounded by pillows, reclining most languidly in bed". And so does the "Music" box, Bjelleklang's "For meg sjøl ei stønd" plays in the background, from the living-room. The pains of limited freedom!
nirinia: (Default)
I've read Nabokov, and now I'm moving on to "Bleak House" and Dickens. "Laughter in the Dark" or "Kamera Obskura" is entertaining at times (particularly when he brings out the "Nabokovian parenthesis"), but too early a work to be truly good - unlike Lolita, he is not yet mature and in power, he has not yet perfected his abilities. I contemplated Sebastian Faulks, Emily Brontë (could do me well, school-wise, but who can be bothered to think tactically these last days of a break?), Pratchett and Tolstoy, but Dickens is the only thing I truly feel like reading. And so, Dickens it is. Until dinner-time, and post dinner it is reading-list ado.

A cold is good for something after all - though this particular one has seen it fit to deprive me of a great chunk of my House-weekend - it would appear (would anyone see it fit to enlighten me about commas in relation to hyphens, perhaps? They bother me, for there should really be one somewhere after "after all"): they justify a whole lot of laying about and doing absolutely nothing. I've finished both the wretched "The Things They Carried" - Nam veterans bothered by PTSD should really get in touch with a psychiatrist, and leave my poor art-form alone - and "Laughter in the Dark" and am starting a new book shortly. All in a few days. A MacBook Pro helps the laying about, too. I love it. Though it's not mine, if you really want to go into tedious detail, I lay claim to it most of the time. Beautiful machine. Yarg.

Nabokov is, by the way, terribly clever; he calls a decadent actress Dorianna Karenina. Ingenious. It is of course, just her stage name, but not only does he convey her as unsophisticated, stupid and vile when answering Rex that she has no idea who her last stage-name originally belonged to, he gives the reader an idea of her without using a single adjective or adverb. And that is a truly splendid art. I wish I could master it half as well as he.

PS. The be-darned "Location" box has a character limit. I'm almost offended. It was supposed to say "Lavishly surrounded by pillows, reclining most languidly in bed". And so does the "Music" box, Bjelleklang's "For meg sjøl ei stønd" plays in the background, from the living-room. The pains of limited freedom!

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