I just saw Better Luck Tomorrow and Confidence, both of which prominently feature people double-crossing people. I have no faith left in humanity. (They are good movies, though, if a little implausible toward their ends.)
Also, I ran across a review of the new DeLillo book, which does a good job of dissecting everything I dislike about this modern style-over-substance tendency.
While looking for a review of the DeLillo book, I also read a review of Brill's new book. Sadly, the only person ever to give me a D didn't get panned. The Times thought it did a good job of showing how self-interest and public interest were intertwined, which is about all you can hope for if we're all as self-serving and dehumanized and divided as all this pop culture is making me believe.
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 23, 2003
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
Proximity without intimacy
I'm finishing Bare: On Women, Dancing, Sex, and Power by Elisabeth Eaves, which I actually started on the plane to San Diego this winter, where I was going to give the book as a present to Andrea. I saw it at the bookstore and it looked interesting. Is it cheesy to read someone's present? A little. But it was incredibly engrossing, and when I didn't get a chance to finish it, I tracked it down at the library.
At one point, it says
"Do you know what Dante's definition of hell is?" I asked Clarence from Cleveland. Being so near the airport, Extasy got a lot of business travelers. He wore shiny loafers and a pressed shirt.
"Proximity without intimacy," I said. Clarence nodded politely but vaguely. He was game to talk to me. Both of us chipper and friendly, we had gone over names, cities of origin, his job, the weather, that day's football game. He looked unsure of whether he should pick up my new conversation strain or change the subject entirely.
I knew almost nothing about Dante. I had read a reference to him in a novel that day, and it was floating around in my head. I wanted to kick myself as soon as I had said it. It was absurd. I was absurd, Clarence was absurd. This place was absurd, and the Divine Comedy was an absurd thing to bring up. I didn't want to appear well read because it made me feel like a talking monkey. I had been show-offy and self-indulgent, which suggested that I cared what Clarence thought, and I didn't want to start caring, or appearing to care, what any of them though. I wanted to give people only my facade.
So, I thought to myself, did Dante really say that? Literally? After a little web hunting (and then some), it looks like a lot of people have picked up this meme from the book Eaves is likely referring to: Melissa Bank's 1999 The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing, which made it into Oprah's book club and spawned various erroneous Dante citations. Some people only describe it as being from an unnamed book (ashamed of the title?) or add a disclaimer explaining they haven't read Dante themselves. Interestingly, the only use of the phrase clearly predating the book is a guide to BDSM.
All of that said, it's a pretty intriguing idea. But is the absence of both proximity and intimacy worse? I'd say probably yes. The terms are terribly vague, but if I think empty subway train versus subway train full of strangers, or empty library versus library full of strangers, the one with the people always wins. Or, metaphorically, if I think about knowing a subject superficially versus not knowing about it at all, the choice seems obvious. I suspect many people have latched on to this in the context of romance, but it probably isn't so true if one gives it more thought.
At one point, it says
"Do you know what Dante's definition of hell is?" I asked Clarence from Cleveland. Being so near the airport, Extasy got a lot of business travelers. He wore shiny loafers and a pressed shirt.
"Proximity without intimacy," I said. Clarence nodded politely but vaguely. He was game to talk to me. Both of us chipper and friendly, we had gone over names, cities of origin, his job, the weather, that day's football game. He looked unsure of whether he should pick up my new conversation strain or change the subject entirely.
I knew almost nothing about Dante. I had read a reference to him in a novel that day, and it was floating around in my head. I wanted to kick myself as soon as I had said it. It was absurd. I was absurd, Clarence was absurd. This place was absurd, and the Divine Comedy was an absurd thing to bring up. I didn't want to appear well read because it made me feel like a talking monkey. I had been show-offy and self-indulgent, which suggested that I cared what Clarence thought, and I didn't want to start caring, or appearing to care, what any of them though. I wanted to give people only my facade.
So, I thought to myself, did Dante really say that? Literally? After a little web hunting (and then some), it looks like a lot of people have picked up this meme from the book Eaves is likely referring to: Melissa Bank's 1999 The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing, which made it into Oprah's book club and spawned various erroneous Dante citations. Some people only describe it as being from an unnamed book (ashamed of the title?) or add a disclaimer explaining they haven't read Dante themselves. Interestingly, the only use of the phrase clearly predating the book is a guide to BDSM.
All of that said, it's a pretty intriguing idea. But is the absence of both proximity and intimacy worse? I'd say probably yes. The terms are terribly vague, but if I think empty subway train versus subway train full of strangers, or empty library versus library full of strangers, the one with the people always wins. Or, metaphorically, if I think about knowing a subject superficially versus not knowing about it at all, the choice seems obvious. I suspect many people have latched on to this in the context of romance, but it probably isn't so true if one gives it more thought.
Sunday, March 23, 2003
White Noise
I finished White Noise today, including some reading out in the park pretending it wasn't quite as cold as it is. Despite predispositions to the contrary (fun fact, we put this article online the summer I was at the Atlantic), I really did enjoy it. It's a pretty addictive style, although it helps that I enjoy implausibly-eloquent dialogue, which is probably why I also like Dawson's. Admittedly, some of the ideas are simple and there are occasional bits of blatant style-over-substance, but there are some fun little pithy passages. Several toward the end revolve around death and war, timely-ily enough. For example:
"Nostalgia is a product of dissatisfaction and rage. It's a settling of grievances between the present and the past. The more powerful the nostalgia, the closer you come to violence. War is the form nostalgia takes when men are hard-pressed to say something good about their country."
"Nostalgia is a product of dissatisfaction and rage. It's a settling of grievances between the present and the past. The more powerful the nostalgia, the closer you come to violence. War is the form nostalgia takes when men are hard-pressed to say something good about their country."
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