luni, 30 august 2010
vineri, 13 august 2010
introducing Gene Weingarten
The meaning of life is that it ends — Franz Kafka
Kafka nailed it — Me
Not long after learning to write, I stopped doing it. The proximate cause was a desire to have sex on a regular basis with a particular woman, the one I would eventually marry. She happened to live not in Detroit but in New York, and the only good job I could get there was as an editor. There are worse reasons to make major life decisions.
I liked editing and kept at it for the next twenty years, which meant I had to learn to think extremely analytically about narrative writing: You can’t tell a professional journalist that what he has done isn’t good enough unless you are prepared to explain why. That requires a coherent philosophy. I had to find one.
After reading narrative works I admired and narrative works I didn’t. I came to some important conclusions about what distinguished the first group from the second. This led me to adopt something of an eschatological approach to feature writing, which I codified into the Talk. I became famous for the Talk. Writers hated the Talk. I don’t blame them.
The script seldom varied: The writer would tell me what his story was going to be about, and then I would explain to him, patiently, why he was wrong. Your StOlY, I would say, is going to be about the meaning of life. This tended to take some people aback, particularly when their subject was something ostensibly small-say, the closing of a local amusement park. Usually, a Socratic dialogue would ensue:
“Well, what is an amusement park about?” I would ask.
“Fun.”
“And why do people want to have fun?”
“To take their mind off their worries.”
“And what are they worried about?”
You see where this is going. Pretty soon, through one route or another, we’d arrive at Kafka.
My method may have been obnoxious and condescending, but my point was on target:
A feature story will never be better than pedestrian unless it can use the subject at hand to address a more universal truth. And, as it happens, big truths usually contain somewhere within them the specter of death. Death informs virtually all of literature. We lust and love so we can feel more alive. We build families so we can be immortal.
PS: Dear Santa, you can find for me the book here; yeah, it's pretty soon, but you're pretty kind :)
Kafka nailed it — Me
Not long after learning to write, I stopped doing it. The proximate cause was a desire to have sex on a regular basis with a particular woman, the one I would eventually marry. She happened to live not in Detroit but in New York, and the only good job I could get there was as an editor. There are worse reasons to make major life decisions.
I liked editing and kept at it for the next twenty years, which meant I had to learn to think extremely analytically about narrative writing: You can’t tell a professional journalist that what he has done isn’t good enough unless you are prepared to explain why. That requires a coherent philosophy. I had to find one.
After reading narrative works I admired and narrative works I didn’t. I came to some important conclusions about what distinguished the first group from the second. This led me to adopt something of an eschatological approach to feature writing, which I codified into the Talk. I became famous for the Talk. Writers hated the Talk. I don’t blame them.
The script seldom varied: The writer would tell me what his story was going to be about, and then I would explain to him, patiently, why he was wrong. Your StOlY, I would say, is going to be about the meaning of life. This tended to take some people aback, particularly when their subject was something ostensibly small-say, the closing of a local amusement park. Usually, a Socratic dialogue would ensue:
“Well, what is an amusement park about?” I would ask.
“Fun.”
“And why do people want to have fun?”
“To take their mind off their worries.”
“And what are they worried about?”
You see where this is going. Pretty soon, through one route or another, we’d arrive at Kafka.
My method may have been obnoxious and condescending, but my point was on target:
A feature story will never be better than pedestrian unless it can use the subject at hand to address a more universal truth. And, as it happens, big truths usually contain somewhere within them the specter of death. Death informs virtually all of literature. We lust and love so we can feel more alive. We build families so we can be immortal.
PS: Dear Santa, you can find for me the book here; yeah, it's pretty soon, but you're pretty kind :)
sâmbătă, 7 august 2010
ziua cu gust de piele sărată
Se scurge sentimentul dn mine
Cum ai scurge ultima picatura din vinul rosu sec din sticla care te-a umplut ani de zile
Si ti-e atat de greu s-o scurgi în pahar pentru ca stii ca va fi ultima picatura care te va imbata maxim si vei adormi iar a doua zi nu-ti vei mai aduce aminte nimic
Si vei fi treaz după ani de zile
Şi poate nu eşti pregătit pentru asta, dar pân’la urmă n-ai fost pregătit pentru nimic
Şi mai şi plouă ca-n filmele alea diabetice
Doar că de data asta ploaia clăteşte bine blocurile murdare din oraşul meu
Şi-ţi diluează docilă silueta mai mult conturată doar de mine în absenţa ta
S-a scurs sentimentul din mine
Şi acum mă duc la culcare
Şi-o să adorm automat
Fie că mă iubeşti, fie că nu
Fie că nu, fie că da
Cum ai scurge ultima picatura din vinul rosu sec din sticla care te-a umplut ani de zile
Si ti-e atat de greu s-o scurgi în pahar pentru ca stii ca va fi ultima picatura care te va imbata maxim si vei adormi iar a doua zi nu-ti vei mai aduce aminte nimic
Si vei fi treaz după ani de zile
Şi poate nu eşti pregătit pentru asta, dar pân’la urmă n-ai fost pregătit pentru nimic
Şi mai şi plouă ca-n filmele alea diabetice
Doar că de data asta ploaia clăteşte bine blocurile murdare din oraşul meu
Şi-ţi diluează docilă silueta mai mult conturată doar de mine în absenţa ta
S-a scurs sentimentul din mine
Şi acum mă duc la culcare
Şi-o să adorm automat
Fie că mă iubeşti, fie că nu
Fie că nu, fie că da
decisions
in this Princeton University graduation address, Amazon founder Jeff Bezos makes the case that our character is reflected not in the gifts we're endowed with at birth, but by the choices we make over the course of a lifetime
marți, 3 august 2010
luni, 2 august 2010
24h
Îşi scufundă capul pe pernă ca într-un val în care speri să dispari şi alunecă fluid în somn. Fără vise. Are destule în viaţa reală şi n-ar chef de încă o dezamăgire. De fapt se culcă doar ca să prindă clipele de imediat cum se trezeşte. Le ştii? Acele clipe fără gravitaţie, în care ieşi din somn, dar încă nu dă buzna realitatea în mintea ta. Prezentul absolut, mai plin decât prezentul din cărţile self help. Doar atunci se simte liniştită. În clipele fără gravitaţie. Dar realitatea e flămândă de victime şi muşcă din ele. Trece anestezia, simte greutatea corpului. Simte cum se scurge iar durerea aia nouă de ceva luni. Şi de-abia atunci începe să viseze cu adevărat...la o zi, la 24 de ore formate fix din aceste clipe fără gravitaţie de care să atârne fără să atingă realitatea. Nici măcar cu vârful degetelor strâmbe de la picioare, nici.
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