Neither/Nor

Soren Kierkegaard's Either/Or is fantastic. I've been reading it all week. Quite slowly, because it's astonishingly relevant to one of the characters in my germinal-stage novel (I was discussing the character with someone and they recommended this book - thank you, thank you) and I keep having to stop to write things down (steal them).

Kierkegaard writes from two points of view. In the first half ('Either') he is a hedonistic aesthete, in the second half ('Or') a deeply moral man, expounding an ethical approach to life. I'm not sure either is necessarily correct, hence this post's title. I'm not sure Kierkegaard did, hence his decision to stay hidden behind the characters.

Everyone seems to turn to 'The Seducer's Diary' but I find it fairly straightforward - it's really The Game for the 19th Century. The most interesting essay is 'Ancient Tragedy's Reflection in the Modern.' He writes about what makes a character tragic rather than bad/sinful, and why Greek tragic characters arouse, as Aristotle said, fear and pity rather than contempt and blame:

"There is a sadness and a healing in the tragic that one should not despise, and when one wants, in the larger-than-life manner of our age, to gain oneself, one loses oneself. Every individual, however original, is still a child of God, of his age, of his nation, of his family, of his friends. Only thus does he have his truth.

"The tragic contains an infinite leniency; really it is what divine love and mercy are... Just when the sinner is about to sink under the general sin which he has taken upon himself, because he felt that the more guilty he became the better his prospects for salvation - in that same moment of terror, consolation appears in the fact that it is a general sinfulness which has asserted itself, now also in him."

The problem for me is, my character doesn't have a God, nation, family or friends. I suppose that makes him a child of the lack of them.

It's so cold.

The homeless and destitute are more conspicuous, more troubling, than ever. A man, his face destroyed by an acid attack, walks through the subway carriages displaying laminated, fading newspaper clippings about his ordeal. He mumbles from a stretched, lipless mouth, to no one in particular, "Can you help? Can you please help me? God bless you." Horrified commuters and party-goers look steadily at their hands. Parents attempt to distract their children, no doubt fearing their careless, puerile expressions of disgust. Of course, he is counting on our distress, on our repulsion. His mutilation - which has, surely, extinguished any hope of unimpeded human interaction for him - is his source of income. I can't stop thinking about him.

Art/ Inebriation.

Drinks in Brooklyn with Marla on Friday. She was late so I got chatting to a guy at the bar who showed me how to do long multiplication, Egyptian style. This is a seriously clever thing to draw on napkins to impress girls. Really. He also drew me a picture. I hope it isn't supposed to be me.

Andrew got us tickets to this play on Saturday night. It's mainly about Russell Barr's experiences as a drag queen in Glasgow, and the whole thing is written and performed by him. It's very funny and horribly violent. Sometimes he strides out into the audience and screams, "You're a fucking cunt!" at someone and then stares at them for about a minute. He did this to Andrew. I almost gave him a consolatory cuddle but opted for silent mirth instead. Someone attempted to introduce me to Russell at the after party, but he was far more interested in getting Andrew's number.

Then we went to W bar and had drunken conversations with strangers.

Today I met Marla at the Met and we watched a couple of films and listened to the directors talk about them. The first film was a 33 minute locked shot of a Japanese couple in a field, piling up hay methodically, then raking it all out methodically. It was as fascinating as it sounds. Marla (20 minutes in): "I swear to God, if they start piling it all up again I am going to lose it." Me: "There are children in here. This is tantamount to abuse." In fairness, there were a couple of things I liked. Like I noticed the woman would never start on a new pile of hay unless her husband initiated it. The second film (the one we'd gone for) was a musical starring many puppets and Meryl Streep. It was as weird and shit as it sounds. Reminded myself I do actually like art by looking at some paintings upstairs. I liked this one by Boldini - the warmth between the mother and son is unusual in a 'society' portrait, and her neck is gorgeous. Then burritos, then walked home.

I look and feel drained. Praying for sleep.

Geekery. Victory.

I rarely talk about my job, and I never think about it when I'm not doing it, but yesterday I got super-enthused about it. I met with some people who work for NY Public Libraries and I'm going, hopefully, to do some strategic consulting work for them. I love libraries. Think about it. Some amazing person (exactly who is up for debate) decided one day that everyone should be able to read loads of books for free. Seriously, they should canonize whoever that was. Libraries are bloody brilliant. So. It feels nice to apply my brain to something worthwhile.



I've been reading Faulkner's short stories. I'd never read something he wrote that wasn't set in the Deep South, but last night I read Victory, about a Scotsman from a shipbuilding town who leaves for the war and chooses never to return. Of course, the story of trying to leave behind what and who and where you came from, and the guilt and resentment that fosters, is universal, and one I relate to, particularly at the moment because the book I'm trying to write is partly concerned with that subject. But Faulkner's skill in reaching halfway around the globe to a hard, grey Northern town and nailing the outlook, the tone, even the dialect, of an alien people is... just... mystical. The best part, I thought, was when the lad is being told off by his Sergeant for not shaving and he keeps saying, again and again, by way of explanation but in a monotonous, slightly insubordinate manner, "Ah'm nae auld enough tae shave. Sirrrr." It says absolutely everything that needs to be said about the character, about the Scottish sensibility, and most of all about war, in that one tiny piece of dialogue. The man was reasonably talented.

It isn't my favourite short story by him. I think Two Soldiers is, so far anyway. But even the stuff I read by him that I don't like that much, there's always something in there, a sentence that goes off like a bomb, that makes me stop and re-read it and re-read it and not be able to continue. Like him describing an old man whose eyes are "like broken eggs that had run together." Or in Two Soldiers when the little boy finally finds his beloved big brother and the older boy, who's enlisted and who we suspect, with that creeping unease Faulkner manages to inject everywhere without saying anything, will never return, is trying to make him go home again. The little boy, who's 8, and has been bold and cocky and talking in a chippy dialect the whole time, just comes out with, "It hurts my heart, Pete."

Band of Horses

You know when someone tells you 'oh if you like that band you'll really like this one' and you hold out high hopes? And you know when you look up the apparently similar band, they're not only nothing like the band you were talking about, but also really shite? Well, that DID NOT just happen. Someone said it to me about The National/ Band of Horses. It turns out Band of Horses are really, really good. This is their best-known song, which I kind of like but think sounds a little like something they'd play on The O.C. when someone died, or totalled their parents' SUV, or didn't get a puppy for their sweet sixteen, or something. But... The First Song is another matter entirely. I heard it for the first time today and had that lovely, rare feeling like I'd always known it.

Now I come to think of it, they're not much like The National. But they're great.

I... think what I just did may be illegal. I feel suffused with the warm glow of lawlessness.

Meet me in Montauk. Silliness. More poetry.

Made it onto the first train of the morning to Montauk on Saturday. Pleasantly near-empty train; three hours of writing. It's a half-hour walk to the Atlantic shore from the station. The town had that lovely out-of-season tourist trap feel, with deserted diners and closed-for-winter surf gear stores. Reminded me of a day I spent in Eastbourne at a similar time of year - groups of teenagers standing round doing nothing, old couples dining in silence. Spent most of the day on the beach, straying off to a cafe when I couldn't feel my nose any more. Sat on some sand-covered steps at the back of a boarded-up beach house. Wrote. Picked shells and pebbles. Stared at the sea, more than anything. A man in Sri Lanka said to me that there are three things you never grow tired of watching: the sea, the moon and elephants.

Back late, ate olives for dinner, slept terribly.

Sunday: a day of frivolity. Met A. for brunch in the West Village. Excellent food and a minor celeb spot. A: "Ooh. I didn't know he was in the gays." This is in no way a substantiated outing. Walked around in the cold for a bit. Later, met R. and some of his friends, went here at about 2am. Good music, but a poorly designed space. And unless you're mashed out of your visage on pills, house music venues can be tense. Overcrowded, everyone clamouring to talk to you and dance with you. The earlier part of the evening - indulging vices and sharing music tips and talking too much - was better.

Yesterday was Martin Luther King Day. I had vague plans of going to Prospect Park for a wander around but the cold sent me scuttling back inside, where I stayed, scribbled some and read my newly-delivered books. I've had this image of a burning rose in my head for a month or so now and have been trying to work out where it came from. Re-reading T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets for the first time in 6 years, I wondered if it could have been lodged in my subconscious all that time. Either way, it's an odd coincidence. This is maybe, maybe my favourite piece of poetry:

"...And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always -
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one."

Midnight moseying. Sorbet.

Met D. On the Lower East Side tonight. Conversation turned weird - amputees, worst sexual experiences, etc. Both amused by this.

Walked home over the Williamsburg Bridge. This may have been ill-advised, safety-wise - I started to construct horror films starring me about halfway across the spookily deserted, oddly claustrophobic walkway - but the views are spectacular up there. The bridge creaks and groans. I've never noticed that before.

Going to try to rise early tomorrow and get the train up to Montauk, perhaps stay overnight, wander on the (hopefully empty) beach, do a bit of scribbling. D. pointed out that's the beach they go to in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I'm now doubly incentivized to crawl out of bed at 6am.

Eating pomegranate sorbet with Alby, who drank coffee at midnight and is looking at a long, twitchy night ahead.

Perspective. Happiness. Insufferable chieftains.

I spent most of my teaching thing last night talking with a kid who confided to me that he wants to be a poet. He's desperate to graduate high school so he can get a job and see the world. It was a well-needed wallop around the head for me.

Luca came over and Alby cooked him dinner. I ate Ritz crackers and chatted to him about my book. We're all feeling saturnine at the moment and we talked a lot about the transient part happiness plays in life. Alby: "Happiness is a moment. Then it disappears. That's it. Nobody has a happy life. Just moments."

Slept really deeply.

I already find Hillary Clinton unbearable. My tolerance for her ridicuolus husband is also waning. Warning: these videos may make you sick in your mouth.

Left work early yesterday and went to the NY Public Library for a few hours. Found some tremendously useful philosophy (useful for my book, not my life). I don't like the library though - it's full of people tap-tap-tapping on MSN and the tst-tst-tst of their tinny headphone music. Jesus. Just go to Starbucks. People shouldn't be allowed computers in libraries.

*flounces out, yearning for the halcyon days of the Rad Cam*

Related - I need a decent laptop, and one that is mine, so I don't have to worry about my crappy work one having my writing and music etc. on it. I might get one of these if I feel I can live with no money for a few weeks.

I feel bad today. General, indefinable feelings of bad-ness. I shall attempt to rise above them by helping young people to read tonight. Then I may attempt to eat.

I'm terrified of revolving doors. I expect to lose a limb, or my life, to them any day now. I googled 'revolving doors death' (I'm avoiding doing my expenses) and it gave search findings like 'death is just a revolving door' which confirmed my suspicions.

We went here last night for blues and hard liquor. Or carbonated soft drinks, in my case. The bands were fantastic, as always. It was my friend Luca's birthday. He is an Italian journalist. We honoured his maturity by helping him compose 'An Italian's Guide to Rude and Childish English Words and Phrases.' When I left, he pleased me immensely by telling me to "man the fuck up."

If you've spent any time with me recently, you'll have endured me wittering about The National, or listening to them and ignoring you. This is my favourite song. I like that performance because you can hear in his voice in the first few lines he's going, 'Sweet Christ, we're on Letterman.'

Also the last lines of Slow Show are perfect.

Reading:

Dylan Thomas, always. I keep him close to hand. Soul balm.

"Out of the sighs a little comes,
But not of grief, for I have knocked down that
Before the agony; the spirit grows,
Forgets, and cries;
A little comes, is tasted and found good;
All could not disappoint;
There must, be praised, some certainty,
If not of loving well, then not,
And that is true after perpetual defeat."

Also Ulysses. Yes, it's difficult, but it's often unexpectedly gorgeous just when you thought you wanted to throw it out of the window. I'm amazed I wasn't made to read it at Oxford. Almost everything else I dreaded reading wound up on a reading list eventually. The Faerie Queene, for example.

(In third year, I was talking to my tutor - the cleverest man alive, and a Spenser specialist, incidentally - about which subjects I should focus on for Finals. I mused, "I think I maybe shouldn't do Spenser." He took a drag from his roll-up, a swig of gin, sighed, and said, "You definitely shouldn't do Spenser." I'd written my essays on him over a year beforehand, so they must have been of a singularly memorable awfulness.)

Met A. at this tearoom. It’s an extremely nice tearoom.

We drank tea. He said I looked thin. I said he looked hot. We agreed that more in the way of money, yoga and fruit and less in the way of alcohol abuse and crappy jobs would be a good thing in 2008.

On the way to meet him I saw a huge rat in the middle of the sidewalk. It was kind of shuddering and didn’t scuttle off when I paused to look at it. I felt bad, and imagined arriving at an animal hospice with this shivering rat cradled in my arms, saying, “Um, this rat looks sick. You should probably fix it.” And they’d say, “Is this your rat, ma’am?” And I’d say, “No, I found it on the street. Does that make its life any less…” and before I could finish they’d be quarantining me and carrying out a controlled explosion on the rat.

Anyway, walking away I thought, 'Someone will probably kill it.' When I walked back past it later it didn’t have a head anymore, and two men, both sporting skinny jeans and imprudent amounts of hair product, were letting their little dog paw it.

I was walking behind a woman who was wearing the perfume I used to wear when I was 18 and had fallen in love for the first time. Every time I smell it – which is often, because it’s now irritatingly popular – I feel sad.

I tend not to comment on American politics, partly because I find the whole thing nervously hilarious, but mainly because I don't feel in the least bit qualified since my years of addiction to The West Wing haven't, surprisingly, helped foster much beyond a firm belief that Jed Bartlett should be Master of the Universe, and Toby/Josh can be She-Ra. That said, it is, of course, an interesting and very important time.

So, I'm reading about it (by which I mean the Democratic race in particular) everywhere, as we all are on both sides of the pond, because America gives a shit and everyone else has to give a shit. Parts of this article troubled me. I understand gender and race are of special interest in a country that's never had a female or black president, and particularly one with the historical and ongoing racial divisions of America. But I balk at observations like:

"Mr. Obama’s victory in Iowa and his second-place finish in New Hampshire have put a number of black leaders in the awkward position of opposing a black candidate for president."

Really? Awkward? Would this remark have been passable if they were white leaders having to oppose Clinton? I wish no black person would vote for Obama because of his ethnicity, or feel 'awkward' for not doing so. I feel the same about women and Clinton. It's an embarrasing, and fair, indictment of many voters. I hope the candidates are embarrassed by it and feel they're worth more. It will happen, already is, but it's shameful. I think.


Hmmm. So.

I'm in a coffee shop with a delicious smoothie that's really thick and cold, so I'm blabbering on here because it's hurting my teeth to drink it. I saw my ex-housemate for a drink last night. Then I declined a dinner invite, then I was supposed to go to the cinema with other friends but I passed out at 10pm instead. Highly sociable. I woke at 1.30am and slept fitfully until 9.

I dreamed I met a little girl; I was looking right into her face, and she was pale and broad-cheeked with green-grey eyes and freckles and a little pink mouth. Then my conscious self said to my dreaming self, "Oh look, it's you when you were little." And it was. I once read that it's horribly bad luck to see your own face in a dream, but it felt like a magical free time-traveling pass.

Then I dreamed about skiing and woke up thinking, a) Jesus, skiing is scary, and b) I should really go skiing again soon.

Then I gave up on sleeping and started writing.

Slept, finally, anxiously. Woke up at 5am, overheated. When I was younger, I used to hallucinate when I got too hot. Now I mainly have spectacularly disturbing dreams.

Went for a drink with M. last night. My friends surprise me sometimes. I forgot how kind and decent she is. She listened, consoled, advised, understood. I'm glad I went.

I wrote quite a lot in the last few days. Not eating, not sleeping, and feeling depressed all have a remarkably positive impact on my ability to write. Um...yey?

My boss let me work from home today, but the landlord's renovating the apartment above (following this appalling event last year), so there's a lot of really terrible music and power tool usage going on, and snowflakes of ceiling deritus are falling on me. I might relocate somewhere.

But... the rain's so thick the light can't get through. I love walking in the rain, but not that much. It is hammering, pleasurably, on the windows. Has winter finally begun?

Emotional upheaval today.

It was expected, and the sadness is partly cocooned in band-aids of what I suspect is morose relief.

I didn't expect that.

My brain is rimy. Keep having bad dreams and waking up with headaches, to which I'm unaccustomed (the headaches, not the dreams).

Found Man's Search For Meaning lying in the apartment last night. The Holocaust will always, I hope, be inconceivable to most of us; both the infliction of it and, as Frankl relates, the endurance of it. But he quotes Dostoevsky: "Man is a creature who can get used to anything."

The title of this blog comes from a story in the Old Testament. Absalom leads a rebellion against his father, King David, and is killed. When the news is delivered to David, he reacts thus:

The king was shaken. He went up to the room over the gateway and wept. As he went, he said, "O my son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you — O Absalom, my son, my son!"

(2 Samuel 18:33)

After incest, rape, betrayal, and death, it's really about immutable paternal love. Unconditional love.

Also, Absalom, Absalom! is a wonderful book. Perhaps my favourite. Along with all my other favourites. It's narrated, in part, by Quentin Compson, a recurring character of Faulkner's. There's a plaque dedicated to him somewhere that reads something like, 'Quentin Compson. Drowned in the odour of honeysuckle.'

Here's Faulkner reading his Nobel Prize acceptance speech.