Wednesday Thursday

Red hair, green shirt day two.

Starting with egg, cheese, bread, meat.

The truth is:

There's no use in longing. Both ugliness and beauty mean nothing.

Silly Ol' Poems

Mean-spirited millet maker in
the kitchen stirring
the pot, spitting fire
spitting fits
of rage over events
of ten years ago
feeding her family on
ten years worth of grief and bad
left over feelings
she can't quite come to grips with.
In her mean spiritedness
Millie millet maker
gripes over the short falls of others
and how she's done
them wrong.

The Possessed

Since my husband Andre is taking Russian Literature and Russian Language (I'll call it 101) right now, I have a not quite insider's but sort of inner outsider's view of the crazy and marvelous world of "Russian books and the people who read them;" that being the subtitle of the excellent book "The Possessed" by Elif Batuman named for the story by Fyodor Dostoevsky.

One of the essays included in this collection was first printed in Harpers Magazine and Andre read it then; drawn in by the provocative question posed by the title "Who Killed Tolstoy?" The fact that one of his former Russian lit profs was a character in the essay only compounded his interest. For whatever reason, at the time I had ZERO interest in reading this essay.

When it was published in this collection and arrived at our bookstore though, I was immediately drawn in by the cartoon cover. (What? I like cartoon anything apparently.) And then within seconds of turning the page became completely captivated (captured) by the writing. This book is often hilarious, tongue-in cheek, and full of many interesting factoids, asides and straight-up gossip about the Russian writers we know and love and the surprisingly zany people devoted to studying them.

The following is an excerpt recounting an exchange between Isaac Babel's daughter Nathalie and Janet Lind; one of the organizers of a conference centred on her father's works:

"JANET," Nathalie said finally, in her fathomless voice. "IS IT TRUE THAT YOU DESPISE ME?"

Janet Lind turned to her calmly. "I beg your pardon?"

"IS IT TRUE THAT YOU DESPISE ME?"

"I can't imagine what makes you say that."

"I say it because I would like to know if it is true THAT YOU DESPISE ME."

"That is an extremely odd question. What gives you an idea like that?"

"I just think you were told that I'm a NASTY OLD WITCH."

"This is really extremely odd. Did someone say something to you?" Lind frowned slightly. "You and I have barely had any interactions."

"Even so, I had the impression- that you DESPISE ME."

This conversation continued for longer than one would have thought possible , given how clear it was that Janet Lind, for whatever reason, was just not going to tell Nathalie Babel that she did not despise her. Looking from Lind to Babel, I was struck by the nontrivial truth behind the Smiths song "Some girls are bigger than others."

After reading this book I've become obsessed with checking for updates on Elif Batuman's blog because I need a constant fix of her prose from now on.

Little Mac

They lived in a glass house lit up from inside with the filaments burning. Window coverings were flimsy and insubstantial; the light always got out in spite of them. It was carpeted in mauve in what looked like popcorn, and one could hear crunching under foot with every step taken towards the threshold of the first doorway, down the stairs of which one could find a large room this time carpeted in electric puddles; it was quite intricate really. Not what you would expect actually, from the outside looking in. The main problem in the glass house was that somehow all the light was constantly escaping, and the interior burned like a furnace and buzzed like a bee. It became difficult for living, was actually not life-supporting at all. It was like a planet too close to its own sun. The inhabitants would often need to flee out of doors. The glass was quite high up- suspended, and descent was facilitated only by holding onto and sliding down one of several ropes and ribbons which hung from it, giving the appearance of an airborne jellyfish.

She would often imagine a life set somewhere else. In something called Little Mac the name of a house her grandparents had lived in. It may have been the name of the house or the name of the street, regardless it sat in her mind quite solidly. It had no questions of itself, Little Mac. It was cute and small and made of bricks, planted firmly in earth with an even number of rooms; 4 or 6 or 8. It didn't matter which. Little Mac would have gardens and sensible window coverings. If she could get there, then Little Mac would be real and the glass house would be fantasy.

Depths

Let's be someone and try to figure it out.