The girl gets around

We've been traveling a lot lately. This certainly has positives and negatives (for example, you realize how humid this place of residence really is), but overall it's been quite lovely. The point of all this is that recently I was on a trip with someone who knows about the list project, so of course he eventually asked me about it.

Most of his questions were the typical ones (where are you at generally, where are you at this year, any good ones recently, how are you tracking for completion, etc.), but since he's the kind of person who can think of about a million questions on any topic at a moment's notice, he had some more interesting questions. For example, we chatted some about how this project has changed my perspective on literature generally, how my tastes have evolved, what my main takeaways have been, etc.

We also had a fairly interesting conversation about the kind of books that just absolutely grip you to the point where you hardly can do anything else till you finish it. Books that excite and consume you all at the same time. We could not come up with a good term for this experience, though.

Somehow, and I'm not really sure how, we managed to segue from that perfectly safe topic of conversation to discussing my feelings about having babies. And we're not talking in the abstract, are you a zero population growth kind of girl sense, we're talking how do I personally feel about whether I want to have children/be a mother. Like I said, I don't know how this happened.

When you're ready, just say you're ready/ When all the baggage just ain't as heavy

Sometimes I worry that blogging is a very arrogant activity. Sure, I have thoughts and feelings and such, but what makes me think that anyone would be interested in reading about them? Fortunately, I don't actually think anyone reads this blog, so that more or less works itself out. I tend to briefly cycle through these stages of thinking this blog is sort of ridiculous to thinking that it sort of doesn't really matter.

Since I mostly write this for myself, you'd think it would be sort of a really honest presentation of myself. However, I'm very rarely fully open on this thing. I tend to only show one of my four main personality modes, which is my more manic/absurd version. This mode is probably the most amusing, but only a select few see it going IRL.

Then there is the me that I like, which is the one that I tend to use in professional contexts. It's the very competent, patient, confident, empathetic, nice me. This is sometimes more aspirational than not, but ah well.

Then there is the scary/dark/damaged me, which I'm not going to talk about here.

And finally, the me that most people experience, which is the guarded me with superficial friendliness while attempting to avoid telling you anything about me me (most people get this one and the second one in varying ratios depending on the context in which they know me; few get past them and even fewer get past them permanently).

I love everything about you that hurts

Somehow, I missed Bloom's Day this year. How did I do that? I really wanted to celebrate it; sort of like how I always intend to celebrate Guy Fawkes Day and Bastille Day, and yet never do. Sometimes I feel like a constant source of disappointment to myself (particularly when I try to give up dairy).

So, to make up for missing Bloom's Day, I decided to read Finnegans Wake. Wish me luck!

Little miss didn't do right/Went and ruined all the true plans/ Such a shame, such a sin

Both Fools of Fortune and Waterland were quite good, and I liked them both quite a bit. They didn't get to me like my favorites do, but still, I'd recommend them. They are both interested in how we make sense of individual lives in the context of larger historical events and the sort of dialogical relationship between the two.

The first, Fools of Fortune, is quite beautiful, but also rather depressing. Ultimately, it's about the ways that said larger historical forces can sort of destroy lives, though it does so without denying individual agency. Thus, while the characters may see their lives shaped by forces outside of their control, really how they react is what matters and destroys. I sort of felt like I should have liked this one more than I did, actually, since its themes are fascinating. Ah, well; the title of my post is a reference to this book (which, ouch), in case you are playing along at home.

I was really looking forward to Waterland, since it's by Graham Swift and I adored The Light of Day so much. My expectations probably were too high. I didn't love it as much, but it is really very excellent. It's unconventionally told, which adds to its power. It is more explicitly about the forces of history.

Here is a favorite quote:

Children, be curious. Nothing is worse (I know it) than when curiosity stops. Nothing is more repressive than the repression of curiosity. Curiosity begets love. It weds us to the world. It's part of our perverse, madcap love for this impossible planet we inhabit. People die when curiosity goes. 

 These are books 389 and 390, if you care to know.

Wait, what?

In today's edition of lists, we celebrate a list of some of the random questions people have asked me recently:

1. Are you sure that you don't want a haircut?
2. Were you mugged?
3. Have you done this before?
4. Does this usually happen?
5. Are you pregnant?
6. Is that really how you want it?
7. When should we go skydiving?

You get a point for every question where you can guess my answer. Bonus points if you can guess the context. Here is a hint: each question was asked by a different person.

You must bruise easily

Oh, goodness! In my recent post on top books, how could I forget The Plague? Such an amazing, wrenching, brutal, exquisite book.

Some favorite quotes:

"And that, too, is natural enough. In fact, it comes to this: nobody is capable of really thinking about anyone, even in the worst calamity." 

"Tarrou nodded. 'Yes. But your victories will never be lasting; that's all.' Rieux's face darkened. 'Yes, I know that. But it's no reason for giving up the struggle.'"

"None the less, he knew that the tale he had to tell could not be one of a final victory. It could be only the record of what had had to be done, and what assuredly would have to be done again in the never ending fight against terror and its relentless onslaughts, despite their personal afflictions, by all who, while unable to be saints but refusing to bow down to pestilences, strive their utmost to be healers." 

That's all right because I like the way it hurts

It took me quite a while to get into The Discovery of Heaven. Which is to say, about 300 pages; quite the investment, I guess. To be fair, it is a pretty long book, so I still had a lot left after I got into it. I suppose it's an argument for why the rules of the list are important, since this is one I would have been very tempted to give up on, but I'm very glad to have read it.

I won't give a plot summary, because a) it doesn't really matter, and b) it would make it sound like a soap opera. Seriously. Ultimately, it wasn't the plot that really interested me anyway.

The Discovery of Heaven is another novel that explores questions about what makes life worth living. There's a lot more going on in the novel, of course, but I was really struck by the places where it seems to ask "is life worth it?" and perhaps more interestingly "is there a point when life stops being worth it, and if so, what then?"

I'm fascinated by novels that conclude sometimes that perhaps the answer is no to the first question and yes to the second, at least in some instances. This could feel very bleak, but in some ways it's very empowering. The answer to me is always yes to the first, but knowing that is a choice, an active commitment to certain values that I hold rather than a default position is empowering.

We all have our nights though, don't be so ashamed/I've had mine, you've had yours, we both know

Recently I went to New York; this trip was for a whole host of reasons. Visiting the Morgan Library was not one of them, but whilst I was in the city I managed to pop in for a bit.

I love libraries so much. I get how I tend to get on international trips (yes, we are lost, dehydrated, and probably getting heatstroke, but we're in Venice! yes, it is pouring rain, cold, muddy, and we're probably all going to get sick from this, but we're in Costa Rica!); just sort of seriously blissed out.

This is a particularly beautiful library, and it was pretty quiet when I was there, so I was able to really browse the titles. First I found Rebecca and Rowena by Thackery, for which I have a soft spot (for obvious reasons). Then I found the Brontes, and oh, it was lovely.

It all made me miss my books. Someone recently expressed surprise by how few books I have in my apartment, which is fair. Most of the list books come from the library, and most of my books are not with me. Sigh.

I used to be consciously naive

This weekend I did many things that I normally do not do, which, let me tell you, is a very good  thing (DC, I love you, but sometimes I think we should see other people). One thing that I did was read a book that is not on the list.

I read this book because someone loaned it to me with instructions to read it along with a very lengthy story about why I should read it. It's called The Defining Decade, and essentially its argument is that many twenty-somethings sort of waste their twenties being childish and acting as though they have all this time later to get things together, when in reality this decade establishes your options later, for better for for worse. Within that broad topic area, it specifically focuses on career/education and dating/marriage.

The person recommending the book told me it was the perfect book for someone my age (though he was a year off in his guess at my age, so maybe it is only almost perfect?); that said, however, I'm not exactly sure what to make of the recommendation. Also worth noting, this guy is not even five years older than me (I suppose he can claim a sort of older brother role in my life?).

Perhaps my favorite part of all of this is that the entire time he was telling me about this book and essentially instructing me to act like an adult, I was playing with neon green play-dough (and nodding my head earnestly).

Actually, though, this was an excellent book for me to read right now.

You're lying. I've been you

Recently I had the "Tell me the top ten books you've read so far" conversation. People, when they hear of this project, frequently want me to give them my thoughts on the ones they should definitely read as sort of a shortcut on the project. I can't say this enough: Please do not take my recommendations. They will not make you happy.

Here are my top picks, though, with a little description:

God of Small Things (this is a very violent book about an absolutely horrific event that ruins many lives, as well as a history of incredible cruelty and abuse among family members).

The Light of Day (this is a wrenching book about the ways cruelty drives violence, the fall out of violence, and the question about whether we can ever come back from the ultimate act of violence and still be human).

Beloved (this is a devastating book, also about the ways that violence begets violence, focusing on one of the most horrific forms of systematic exploitation/violence ever devised, and showing how coping mechanisms, for lack of a better description, can become so warped from this violence that they lead to their own devastating ends).

Cloud Atlas (this one is slightly less horrific than some on this list, but it is mostly about the ways that we exploit each other for our own ends, how we privilege our own needs over others, and how casual cruelty can lead to horrific exploitation).

Fugitive Pieces (this one uses another one of the most horrific acts of systematic violence to explore the question of what makes life worth living, what makes surviving possible, in the face of absolute and total loss).

Hallucinating Foucault (this one is also interested in the question of what remains when we have lost all we thought ever mattered to us; how do we go on existing in the face of such complete loss).

Saturday (this one explores the ways that random violence and hate can bring lives to the brink of devastation).

Now, then, please stop asking me to recommend books; you don't really want me to!

God Wants No Excuses/I have Only One/You Had Your Daddy's Hands/Forgive Me/You are Your Daddy's Son

I'm still trying to get through the pre-1700s, since as I've mentioned before, I'm really not a fan of these. I haven't had one in this category thus far that I have liked, and generally they just bore me or upset me. So, for book 383 in this project, I decided to read Chaireas and Kallirhoe.

I feel pretty safe in spoiling this one, since let's be honest, you weren't going to read it anyway. Essentially, it is about this couple, Chaireas and Kallirhoe. Kallirhoe is the most beautiful woman in the world (woohoo?), and because of this lots of people want to get with her, so they convince Chaireas that she's cheating on him. Chaireas, level-headed dude that he is, beats Kallirhoe till he thinks she's dead. She isn't dead, but whilst entombed is kidnapped by pirates and sold as a slave. The rest of the story is about them finding their way back to each other and eventually reunited to live happily ever after. Indeed.

One could, I suppose, attempt to read this as sort of a complicated treatise on the cycle of abuse and the reasons women return to abusive intimate partners. But again, let's be honest here, that's not what this is really about. I'm not inclined to read this ahistorically, so I'm just frustrated.

To be fair, I did not pick the best time in my life to read this one. I'm in one of those phases where I have to actively try to not see the vast majority of men as abusers or potential abusers with only extremely rare exceptions who aren't. I hate this about myself, but it happens sometimes. I'm starting to learn, slowly, that denying this doesn't help, and I just have to work through it. Still, I definitely flinched when random dude on the metro sat next to me and tried to start up a conversation. Could not handle it.

Boom! Splat!

Some useful tips, should you want to read and walk. I think the secret is practice and not worrying about speed.

A Very Merry Unbirthday

I think I'm getting a bit bored. Not with the project itself (that would be very sad; I have such a long ways to go still), but with talking about it. People ask me about the project very frequently if they know about it; people who don't know about it comment on all the reading I appear to do. Thus, I spend a surprising amount of time talking about my reading habits.

Now, I did actually bring this on myself in many ways. I received advice from a fellow introvert, who told me that the secret to small talk is to choose two things about yourself that you are willing to talk about, share those all the time, and then people won't notice all the things you don't want to talk about. Just be fully open on two things, then try to switch the topic to the other person, and you are set. He strongly and repeatedly encouraged me to adopt this habit; his advice has proven surprisingly effective, perhaps even too effective.

The list project is the perfect candidate for this sort of thing: because reading is a solitary activity, you can use it all the time with everyone. If you go with your roller derby habit, for example, you can't use that with the people with whom you do roller derby.

I suppose the trade off of being a bit bored is worth it, though, to avoid talking to people about all the things I prefer to avoid talking about: why I moved to DC, when and why I became a vegetarian, my childhood, my teen years, what I did last weekend, my tastes in TV, movies, and music, the (four) stupid things I've done after consuming alcohol, my experiences with road trips, my plans for my life, my "personal life," my amusing medical problems, and what I am thinking right in this moment when you caught me zoning out. Especially that last one. I never give a straight answer when people ask me "what are you thinking," unless it's in a brainstorming meeting or something.

We'll just go slow

I think I've commented before that all novels are ultimately about exploring what it means to be human or what makes life worth living; I suppose you could argue those are sort of two manifestations of the same thing, actually. Anyway, I stand by that argument, and the further I go with the list project the more I am convinced that it is correct.

It's always interesting to encounter ones that seem ambivalent about whether life ultimately is worth it. Coetzee is always so aggressively bleak, so I suppose it should come as no surprise that he would be one who sometimes seems to almost come down on the side of "it isn't, actually." The Life & Times of Michael K is fascinating in that it is about the value of life in many ways, and is sort of a testament to the intrinsic worth of life, while still leaving this question of "is it worth it" open to interpretation. Not, I should say, because of Michael K himself, but because of the horrific ways we interact with each other.

All this bleakness can certainly start to get to you. We do such horrifying, cruel, violent, and degrading things to each other and ourselves. And yet. . .

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

All right, The Siege of Lisbon. Raise your hand if you've heard of this one before! Yeah, I didn't think so. Anyway, it's actually mildly interesting, albeit fairly cerebral. It's definitely a concept book. Basically, it is interested in the nature of truth and the dialectical relationship between truth and fiction.

The novel more or less sets out to problematize the idea of objective truth, particularly in relation to history. It then uses this idea to explore both a particular historical moment and a specific relationship as a way to more broadly mediate on truth, meaning, and connection between disparate people.

Or something like that. You could do many academic papers on this one, I guess.

All of my titles here are references to something. If you get this one, you are good.

That hurt!

So, The Lost Language of Cranes is a subtly brutal little book. The summary on the dust jacket sort of hinted at that, but you don't really notice how truly brutal it is until you are well into it. To quickly summarize: it is the story of a middle-aged couple in New York and their adult son, beginning with a small crisis moment and then from there going into the ways that the secrets we keep from each other and the lies we tell each other/ourselves destroy us, and then destroy what we love.

Now, I realize that probably sounds bleak, but again, you don't really appreciate it until you get into the book. The novel ups the stakes by looking at the collateral damage of these lies, and sort of these cascading effects that then circle back. Part of what makes this so upsetting is that I also had terribly negative feelings about one of the characters and I hated what she did, but you can see how it all started with these brutal secrets.

I feel like lately I've read a lot of books about casual cruelty; that is, about the ways that we sort of hurt each other mostly out of fear and/or selfishness. Depressing. Doesn't help with my general outlook on humanity.