Nietzsche

“I call myself the last philosopher because I am the last human being. I myself am the only one who speaks with me, and my voice comes to me as the voice of someone who is dying. Let me commune with you for just one hour, beloved voice, with you, the last trace of the memory of all human happiness; with your help I will deceive myself about loneliness and lie my way into community and love; for my heart refuses to believe that love is dead; it cannot bear the shudder of the loneliest loneliness, and it forces me to speak as if I were two.”

-- Nietzsche

cleaning computer screens?

"What are you googling?"

I'm trying to see if there is any good information on cleaning computer screens? The dust is really caked on the laptop, and I really cannot put it off any longer.

"A damp cloth is too mysterious for you?"

Well, I messed up one computer screen trying to do that, and so I am that much more chary about screwing up another computer.

"How can you mess up a computer screen with a damp cloth?

Too much water? I cannot remember, but I also wonder if I tried to clean it with the computer on, and whether this could be a problem, or maybe a combination of the two - too much water and having the computer on. I don't know.

In any case, tomorrow morning, before I put the laptop on, I think I am going to have to try and take a damp cloth to it. And we will just have to live with the results.

"Just be very gently. Don't treat it like an Asian masseuse."

Very funny.

Pics

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The Pretty Reckless

Being such a complete Elvis guy, you might guess that I am not much into the contemporary music of the young, but...

I really kind of like this. Listening to a few of their tracks, I can even see myself getting a Pretty Reckless CD.

(Source: ONTD)

Miley's Dog Died

Interesting, I would not have thought that someone who is as rich and lovely and busy as Miley could feel that strongly about the loss of a pet. I supposed that only we saps that have practically nothing else in the world to love could get that beaten down by such a loss.

(Source: ONTD

love songs

I was in the mood for some love songs, but I see that the SIRIUS station is already tuned to Chirstmas music. Yeah, I forgot to record a segment or two for occasions like this. FUCK!!!

Hamlet (3,3) On Delaying Revenge

So we are presented with the most hotly argued question of the many in the play. Hamlet delays - why? Why go on to promise a hellish revenge - later? Should Hamlet have killed Claudius? Some have thought so, because of the consequences of his action. So Bradley: “His failure here is the cause of all the disasters to follow.” Granville-Barker agreed: “By this perverted scruple he opens the way to all the ills to come.”

-- Marvin Rosenberg, “The Masks of Hamlet”

I am surprised to learn that there is a strong line of critical argument that finds Hamlet to be particularly evil himself in not being content to simply kill Claudius, not because Hamlet tempts fate and invites misfortune in his delay, but because these critics sense something diabolical in Hamlet’s salivating hunger to send Claudius’s soul to hell, that death to the usurper is not enough. Since this line of criticism makes for some interesting discussion, I will include it here.

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LJ

LJ has now remodeled our profile pages. Our 'friends' lists no longer include those old friends whose journals have been deleted, those names that have strikes through them. That was one of the ways I liked to dwell on the old days, looking over those lost friends.

I still have the information, though. I have the old friends list copied and pasted in my scribble blog. I am largely beyond caring about what the Russians do to LJ, but I do feel some dread for the prospect that their next big roll out will be for the main journal page. I laugh at the firestorm that will create. If they do that, and if it looks too unworkable for me, I may even stop cross-posting from Dreamwidth.

"What If You Died and No One Knew?"

In January 2006, reports broke in London newspapers that Joyce Carol Vincent had been found dead in her bedsit flat in Wood Green, a northern suburb of the city. She was in her late thirties. She had been tall, vivacious and always smartly dressed—she reminded some people of Whitney Houston. She had had an Indian mother and a West Indian father; they were dead now, but Joyce had sisters. No cause of death could be ascertained because she had been dead for nearly three years. The sketch of a corpse was there on the sofa, a window was slightly open, and the television was still playing.

-- David Thomson

You would think that at least the landlord would come calling for the rent, or that the electricity might at least be shut off.

Sylvia

A student of Sylvia Plath finds it difficult to overcome the mystique of the tragic poet.

_ _ _

Plath, like no other poet, has been idolized and appropriated and taken ownership of, cast and recast by acolytes as a "suicide doll," as her daughter, Frieda Hughes, once said. For the many years I’ve spent studying Plath, I’ve worried that I might be behaving this way, too, that even my disdain for what I see as the wrong kind of Plath groupies is proprietary in a way I have no right to be. Now, here I was about to perpetrate some suspiciously cultish behavior and check out a relic of this saint, an act that looked a lot like worshipping the myth and forgetting the person and the poet.

The box the hair came in was baby blue and tied with a piece of white cloth ribbon. I hesitated before opening it. The lock was not the weird, scant clipping I was expecting, but a long, sand-colored ponytail, also bound with white ribbon. It had slid towards a corner of the box, strangely imperfect and human. I’d expected my moment with the hair to be one of camp, or self-hate, or of not feeling much of anything. Instead, when I put my hair next to hers to compare, it was hard not to cry.

-- Emma Komlos-Hrobsky