Sustained Criticism

My favourite season is autumn, for the drama of winds and colours, but right now I do so appreciate spring. And while we sorely long for it, there are certain tell-tale signs: I can feel the sun on my skin again; It does not only bathe everything in a peculiar, cold light, but warms. Tiny spots of dry asphalt are appearing downtown.

Just to spite us, we had another 30-40 centimetres of snow over the past few days. Quite the snowstorm, and now it's -20 (celcius). I think I'll just hibernate in front of the fireplace, with red wine and a narratology textbook until the winter decides it is quite through with us.

And as for savouring Point Omega? Don't bother. I suspect there was an interesting, well-written, thought-provoking novel somewhere in there, but it is not this.

Somehow survived a four course lunch, delicious! Various antipasti: spicy italian sausages, foies gras and pork paté, an octopus salad I skipped (it is the one kind of seafood I do not eat) and a slice ham with tuna sauce. Then lobster raviolo, deer on a bean-purée with a baked risotto. And finally a chocolate fondant with cherries, cream and a red fruit sauce. Now I'm half delirious with wine and too much desert. I might turn into a foodie.

I promised father I'd upgrade our stationary computer to Snow Leopard, so I'll prepare what needs to be prepared and let it run its course. And head upstairs to be a vegetable in front of the fireplace and read DeLillo, Cosmopolis.

I don't get Pulp Fiction, it is very analysable. At times beautiful, picturesque, very Tarantino, very occasionally remarkable. It doesn't deserve the acclaim it's been given. Everything Tarantino puts his name on is an instant hit. A cult hit, perhaps, but a hit. I like Kill Bill, I fell asleep halfway through Reservoir Dogs and don't particularly like Pulp Fiction. Arty, independent European film, yes, not an American trying too hard. It's not bad, it's just not as fantastical as people make it out to be. There is no disgust, no horrification, there is nothing.

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"Comme lui je me consume." (As him(/like him), I consume(/devour) myself) French, obviously. And a delight. The last line in a poem, read on a girl's tattoed back. (Where have I heard the phrase "tattooed backs"? Dresden Dolls?) I only wish it was feminine passe compose, acquiring the ending ée: consumée. Why could I never appreciate French like this when I was learning it?

My collarbone obsession is back; there are so many beautiful people with gorgeous collarbones.

And I'm reading DeLillo's Falling Man, another 9/11 book. Very different from Safran Foer's take on it, not as heart-breaking, but not bad.

Oh, and I think I've found my dream flat. CK30, in Oslo, by Akerselven. The area isn't fantastic, but the flats are. Old industrial building, lofty ceilings, fantastic aesthetic. I want to live in an old factory. No country houses, but a factory-flat <3.