nirinia: (Default)
I think I mentioned finishing Woolf's A Room of One's Own? A series of lectures (or perhaps just one, I'm not sure) on women and fiction. The pinnacle of it is that a woman must, in order to write fiction, have a room of her own, time and at least 500 a year. I enjoy feminist theory, but often find it too militant. Women must write themselves into literature. Bah! "... she had – I began to think – mastered the first great lesson; she wrote as a woman, but as a woman who has forgotten that she is a woman, so that her pages were full of that sexual quality which comes only when sex is unconscious of itself." She is right. Great women write not for women, or as women, but as writers. I don't write as a woman, and I have no need of writing myself into literature.

You could argue that I can say this because of feminism, suffrage. And I don't deny that, I just think that it has gone too far. As has the debate over whether or not Willoch's (former Norwegian politican, that has been critical of Israel) statement was anti-semitic. While I appreciate the butthurt, there is a difference in critiquing Israel's politics and being anti-semitic.

Bolano's "'2666' is a writers novel, best appreciated by academics (or so inclined) and other writers, often commenting on itself, the craft of writing and the creative process. For the average reader the ending lacks coherence, seemingly 900 pages of often depressing anecdotal tangents about death," says a review on Amazon. I've finally gotten my hands on it. It allegedly reads a bit like stream of consciousness, lacks proper punctuation at times (post-modernism, anyone?) There is even a sentence with over 2000 words! I know I've ranted about writing a bachelor thesis of sorts before, I'm always on the prowl for suitable topics; this might be it. Bolano. I will not sully Nabokov with analysis, I can't. But this, this might work.
nirinia: (Default)
I think I mentioned finishing Woolf's A Room of One's Own? A series of lectures (or perhaps just one, I'm not sure) on women and fiction. The pinnacle of it is that a woman must, in order to write fiction, have a room of her own, time and at least 500 a year. I enjoy feminist theory, but often find it too militant. Women must write themselves into literature. Bah! "... she had – I began to think – mastered the first great lesson; she wrote as a woman, but as a woman who has forgotten that she is a woman, so that her pages were full of that sexual quality which comes only when sex is unconscious of itself." She is right. Great women write not for women, or as women, but as writers. I don't write as a woman, and I have no need of writing myself into literature.

You could argue that I can say this because of feminism, suffrage. And I don't deny that, I just think that it has gone too far. As has the debate over whether or not Willoch's (former Norwegian politican, that has been critical of Israel) statement was anti-semitic. While I appreciate the butthurt, there is a difference in critiquing Israel's politics and being anti-semitic.

Bolano's "'2666' is a writers novel, best appreciated by academics (or so inclined) and other writers, often commenting on itself, the craft of writing and the creative process. For the average reader the ending lacks coherence, seemingly 900 pages of often depressing anecdotal tangents about death," says a review on Amazon. I've finally gotten my hands on it. It allegedly reads a bit like stream of consciousness, lacks proper punctuation at times (post-modernism, anyone?) There is even a sentence with over 2000 words! I know I've ranted about writing a bachelor thesis of sorts before, I'm always on the prowl for suitable topics; this might be it. Bolano. I will not sully Nabokov with analysis, I can't. But this, this might work.

Dec. 29th, 2008 08:13 pm
nirinia: (Default)
I don't know what's gotten into me, I'm posting like a mad. Perhaps I'm making up for the up-coming London induced absence. I've been drooling all over flat, knee-high leather boots the past two years. But I've been sensible, and not bought any until now. As a matter of fact, I haven't bought any shoes – except for the blue, bejeweled sandals from Karen Millen – for months and months. I've worked up a shoe credit. We stopped by to see if they had anything fun, and I saw the back of one of the most stunning dresses yet. Low-cut (back cleavage is almost as wonderful as collarbone cleavage) in the back, with criss-crossing straps. Please, deity, let it be on sale in London.

The boots are of the most perfect, buttery, supple brown leather (the clerk assured us it was Italian, glove-quality). The tops fold down, with a split back over a strap and a band of elastic that run the length of the shaft, making for a snug fit. They're slightly pointed, not quite an almond toe, and make my feet look graceful. Non-pointed flats usually make my feet look so big and unseemly, these do not. I love, love, love them.

We promised we'd let the Breeder, Wenche atKennel elfrema show Anton when we bought him. And we owe it to her: she named him Elfrema's Jewel, and has been incredible for over ten years. We agreed to take him to a show in early February, I think. I'm terrified. And I have to teach him to stand correctly.

Did I mention I tried to read Naipaul's Miguel Street? I gave up. It's a book of semi-connected short stories, written early on in his career. They all start the same way, and have this far been largely uninteresting. I fished Woolf's "A Room of One's Own" out of my shelves, instead. It's brilliant.

Dec. 29th, 2008 08:13 pm
nirinia: (Default)
I don't know what's gotten into me, I'm posting like a mad. Perhaps I'm making up for the up-coming London induced absence. I've been drooling all over flat, knee-high leather boots the past two years. But I've been sensible, and not bought any until now. As a matter of fact, I haven't bought any shoes – except for the blue, bejeweled sandals from Karen Millen – for months and months. I've worked up a shoe credit. We stopped by to see if they had anything fun, and I saw the back of one of the most stunning dresses yet. Low-cut (back cleavage is almost as wonderful as collarbone cleavage) in the back, with criss-crossing straps. Please, deity, let it be on sale in London.

The boots are of the most perfect, buttery, supple brown leather (the clerk assured us it was Italian, glove-quality). The tops fold down, with a split back over a strap and a band of elastic that run the length of the shaft, making for a snug fit. They're slightly pointed, not quite an almond toe, and make my feet look graceful. Non-pointed flats usually make my feet look so big and unseemly, these do not. I love, love, love them.

We promised we'd let the Breeder, Wenche atKennel elfrema show Anton when we bought him. And we owe it to her: she named him Elfrema's Jewel, and has been incredible for over ten years. We agreed to take him to a show in early February, I think. I'm terrified. And I have to teach him to stand correctly.

Did I mention I tried to read Naipaul's Miguel Street? I gave up. It's a book of semi-connected short stories, written early on in his career. They all start the same way, and have this far been largely uninteresting. I fished Woolf's "A Room of One's Own" out of my shelves, instead. It's brilliant.
nirinia: (Default)
"Nabokov told Playboy that the pleasures of writing

correspond exactly to the pleasures of reading, the bliss, the felicity of a phrase is shared by writer and reader: by the satisfied writer and the grateful reader. . . . I write mainly for artists, fellow-artists and follow-artists." - From a paper on Nabokov

And that is why I can't love "The Things They Carried", or the likes of it; they're not art, they simply save their makers from going mad. O'Brien didn't write for artists, will never write for artists, he writes to survive and keep from adding a digit to the number of dead veterans.

Addendum: Started Woolf's "Mrs Dalloway" (She's currently buying the notorious flowers) last night. The style is amazing, I can't quite beleive she pulled it of.
nirinia: (Default)
"Nabokov told Playboy that the pleasures of writing

correspond exactly to the pleasures of reading, the bliss, the felicity of a phrase is shared by writer and reader: by the satisfied writer and the grateful reader. . . . I write mainly for artists, fellow-artists and follow-artists." - From a paper on Nabokov

And that is why I can't love "The Things They Carried", or the likes of it; they're not art, they simply save their makers from going mad. O'Brien didn't write for artists, will never write for artists, he writes to survive and keep from adding a digit to the number of dead veterans.

Addendum: Started Woolf's "Mrs Dalloway" (She's currently buying the notorious flowers) last night. The style is amazing, I can't quite beleive she pulled it of.

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