On Writing

“I’ve never known a writer who didn’t feel ill at ease in the world. Have you? We all feel unhoused in some sense. That’s part of why we write. We feel we don’t fit in, that this world is not our world, that though we may move in it, we’re not of it. Different experiences in our lives may enforce or ameliorate that, but I think if they ameliorate it totally, we stop writing. You don’t need to write a novel if you feel at home in the world. We write about the world because it doesn’t make sense to us. Through writing, maybe we can penetrate it, elucidate it, somehow make it comprehensible. If I had ever found the place where I was perfectly at home, who knows what I would have done? Maybe I would have been a biologist after all.”

-- Andrea Barrett

Schopenhauer

For Schopenhauer, the intellect and its exercise is all. This probably is not true, but he does put the matter well.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“Greatness of soul, or wealth of intellect, is what makes a man happy - intellect, such as, when stamped on its productions, will receive the admiration of centuries to come, - thoughts which make him happy at the time, and will in their turn be a source of study and delight to the noblest minds of the most remote posterity. The value of posthumous fame lies in deserving it; and this is its own reward. Whether works destined to fame attain it in the lifetime of their author is a chance affair, of no very great importance.”

-- Arthur Schopenhauer, “The Wisdom of Life”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Elvis

“You’re kidding me,” I mutter as I stare at the thick yellow package in the mailbox. It is from a book store. So, this must be it. That was quick.

And it is. I now hold “Elvis: What Happened?” in my hands. I have actually held it in my hands before. A different volume. Back when it first came out in 1977. The tell-all by Elvis’s fired bodyguards. I know I read some of it then, but I was not much of a reader at all in my boyhood; so, I doubt I read it all. I certainly don’t remember much. I’m sure it’s going ot be a fun read.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

A devoted son. A generous friend. A model army recruit. A gifted entertainer. A beloved hero to millions.

This is the Elvis Presley the world knows - and cherishes.

Brooding. Violent. Obsessed with death. Strung out. Sexually driven.

This is the other side of Elvis - according to the three men who lived with him through it all.

-- Book blurb

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Even Elvis himself held this book in his hand. In the last few weeks of his life. It is tempting to think that the heartbreak of being humiliated before the world by his friends was a factor in his premature death.

I was going to devote another week to Christopher Hitchens’s essays before tackling the Elvis book, but I can see now that that plan is not going to work. It will be all I can do to hold off until Monday.

( Pics )

Madonna

1. Contrary to her rebellious persona, Madonna was a straight-A student and cheerleader as a teenager at high school in Bay City, Michigan. Her first aspiration was to be a nun, viewing the ones who taught her at school as “superstars”. She remembered them as “superhuman, beautiful, fantastic people”

2. Madonna has referred to arriving in New York at nineteen-years-old with only thirty-five dollars in her pocket as the “bravest thing I’ve ever done”. However, she would get robbed in her dodgy Corona neighbourhood and worked many tedious jobs, including at Dunkin’ Donuts where she was sacked “for squirting jelly over all of the customers”.

3. Her first band was dance-rock act The Breakfast Club in 1979, where she began playing drums. When they started getting gigs at legendary rock club CBGB’s, she would beg to get up and sing one song. After convincing them to do so, she got “a standing ovation” and soon became the lead singer.

-- ONTD

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Sammy loves being outside all day and all night. With this run of moderate temperatures and dry weather, he only very rarely comes inside, and even then I think it is only to whine about getting more food set on the patio. I worry a little bit about him adjusting again to being indoors when we get the next rainy spell.

While it comes to mind, I am also happy to think that Sammy seems to have overcome his moroseness. Remember, even when he was able to be outdoors, Sammy always seemed sad to me, and I attributed it to his being neutered and rendered to live a sexless life. Accordingly, I like to fancy that he has overcome his neutered condition and has come to appreciate the feel of being alive in the world. But he needs to be outside to enjoy it. My little wild animal. I am relieved that he has the sense to stay in the backyard during the day; the stealth of darkness perhaps give the cats a fighting chance in the night.

I am just glad that Coco and Ash still like to spend an appreciable amount of time indoors, like more delicate creatures, perhaps like the females they are.

While on the subject of these cats, I will mention that we have not seen Orangey around, which surprises me. I would think the food on the patio would be too much of a temptation. Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe she comes in the wee hours of the morning to help finish off the plate while I am asleep having dreams that I will not remember in the morning. I think it would be for the best if we never saw Orangey again, though I do feel some sad regret that we were not able to have her become a fourth in our little tribe. She was a beauty and friendly.

* * * *

That’s never going to look good.

“What’s that?” Pi asks.

I’m trying to rehabilitate one of the white plastic chairs from the patio. The one I use in the big room for my meals busted under my ass this afternoon.

Daimon joins us, laughing, “You really are putting on the pounds!”

Please, I don’t think that’s it. The chairs are just getting old.

Daimon smiles, “As you wish.”