Sustained Criticism

Christmas is approaching quickly, as it always does when we cross the threshold of 'halfway there'. No presents purchased, but the cakes are done. And as I have miles to read before I sleep, I ought not to do this.

Finished Bolaño's Amulet in a fit of desperation for something else to do but revise American Politics, two days ago. And while it's not 2666, The Savage Detectives or The Last Evenings on Earth, it is good. I think of it as a Mrs. Dalloway in Mexico. The mother of mexican poetry retelling her involvement with the young poets of Mexico, as she sits terrified in the fourth floor bathroom of the literature department. All told in a stream of consciousness, semi-dream. Auxillio is the apparent narrator, but perhaps it is really Arturo Belano or one of the other poets recounting?

Like Faulkner, Bolaño writes about one universe. The characters that appear in his other works are here as well, Arturito Belano, for instance. And visceral realism.

Attempting to read Russian I finally understood why so many non-native speakers seem to struggle with Mrs. Dalloway. Stream of consciousness does not work unless you read it in one quick gulp (or one fell swoop). You need to forget the technicality of your eyes moving, the nuances and etymological mysteries of words, and just inhale. Which is difficult if you do not completely understand what you are reading.

Committee, isn't it a fascinating word? All those consonants. I stifle a giggle every time I write it.

"In a Sation of the Metro"

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

That, Reader, is why I love modernism. Pound allegedly wrote this after being startled by the glimpse of a beautiful face on the subway. I desperately hope I get a task about modernism on the am. lit. exam. Considering that the lecturer wrote her dissertation on Stein's sensuous, very modernist semi-poetry. Chances are, I will get to write about modernism. I also half-envy English students at high school, now they get an entire chapter devoted to modernism. The book even quotes Eliot! All I ever got was Romanticism.

The title is, by the way, from the film Quills. If I can get through the rest of the curriculum, I'm going to indulge myself with Taxidermia (or however much of it I can stomach), and then Quills. "My writing lives!" might be the most beautiful scene in the world.

We were at a friend's birthday party yesterday. And while it was hilarious, and lovely to see people again, there is a but. I missed some serious discussions! It might have something to do with the fact that I didn't drink much (I couldn't afford a hangover today), and that no one else really did, either. Late-night discussions, fuelled by too-much-alcohol and coffe, that evolve into outright popcorn wars are really very charming. Particularly when you're dealing with socialists.