“I think you still love me, but we can’t escape the fact that I’m not enough for you. I knew this was going to happen. So I’m not blaming you for falling in love with another woman. I’m not angry, either. I should be, but I’m not. I just feel pain. A lot of pain. I thought I could imagine how much this would hurt, but I was wrong.”
― Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun
From 3 AM Magazine
“The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
Cecil Thompson had some meetings with vendors scheduled all over town so he spent most of the day driving around. There wasn’t anything to see except the other drivers stuck in traffic all around him, moving slowly in lockstep to… somewhere.
Right after dawn he was creeping along in six lanes of rush hour traffic with some guy stuck next to him in an old clunker Chevy. The passenger window was open and no more than three feet from Cecil’s face. The guy was reading a magazine. The morning sun cut in at an angle so Cecil could clearly see his chubby face, his ponytail, and the the magazine. He tore off a plain protective cover and the title was BOOB-A-RAMA.
Traffic was really slow so Cecil was stuck beside him. Ponytail dude looked at that magazine for a while, holding it this way and that, then set it down and picked up another one. Tore its cover off too. And then another and another.
Cecil thought, “How pitiful can you get?” This is at seven in the morning. Ponytail dude must have stopped off at some slimy convenience store for coffee, donuts, and a big pile of porn. Now he’s cruising around, reading (well, not really reading) while he drives. Cecil felt filthy just sharing the same tarmac with him.
And who actually buys porn magazines anymore? Shouldn’t he have at least a tablet? Nothing worse than an old-school pervert.
Cecil guessed he was just getting ready to face his day.
Later, Cecil pulled up behind a fire engine. Red truck, silver ladders, yellow brown hoses. No lights, no siren, stuck in traffic, going nowhere very, very, slowly. Cecil felt a little sadness, assuming the truck was returning back from some fire, some emergency; he hoped everyone was alright.
Then he noticed the back of the truck. The little running board back there that extra firemen can ride on was piled high with bags. At least twenty bags of kitty litter and maybe five jumbo bags of cat food. The truck was returning from a visit to the pet store.
The firemen can’t leave their truck, in case of a call, so they have to take it out to the store with them. On a mission of mercy for the firehouse cat.
Cecil don’t know why, but he found that even more comforting than he found the ponytail guy with the porn magazines disturbing.
“It is clear that the individual who persecutes a man, his brother, because he is not of the same opinion, is a monster.”
― Voltaire
From Flash Fiction Online
Louisiana, New York, California, Florida, and Texas were the five deadliest states for cyclists in terms of total fatalities. The latter three have been the most deadly states for cyclists for years, and New York’s fatalities have been on the rise as well—in 2019, it reported 46 cyclist deaths, with 29 in New York City alone. While these three states are also the most populous in the country, Florida and California have among the most cycling deaths per million people, as well. And Louisiana recorded 7.3 cycling deaths per million people, the most of any state.
The GameStop revolt should serve as a message to those in charge: you are loathed by ordinary Americans who are struggling to get ahead.
The time before you go to bed is golden, as it exists every single day, and it’s usually completely yours to schedule. What do you want to do with this time? Read? Spend time with your kids? Work on a hobby you’re passionate about? Take advantage of this time.
The point is to accept that our impulses cannot save us from impermanence, that change and failure and death are inevitable—that stillness, as much as movement, is divine.
Handy words from other languages with no English equivalent.
I have become a fiend for finding new words to describe subtle things that I can’t think about because I don’t have a word for it. There is one thing in particular… a quality of subtle excellence… that I want to find a word for and am afraid I may have to make one up.
This is a good list even though I already knew a few of them and it doesn’t include nadryv – my new favorite word.
Anger is a powerful motivator.
“Ink, a Drug.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Bend Sinister
A few years ago, I bought a little wooden shelf unit at a thrift store for a couple dollars and mounted it on the wall above my secretary desk – which I mostly use for handwriting.
I’ve been reorganizing my office room and decided to use the shelf to store my fountain pen inks. It was about the right size and in a good spot. As I looked at it I thought it would look good with some illumination – so I went onto the internet and bought a one meter RGB LED light strip. It was from one of those cheap places so I had to wait a long time for it to arrive on a slow boat from you-know-where – but I was in no hurry.
When it arrived I drilled some holes in the shelf and the wall and ran a USB cord up to the shelf. I glued the strip down behind the ink bottles (I tried behind and in front – behind looked better) and there is was. The strip does blink and flash and rotate colors and all that stuff (It comes with a little remote) but I usually leave it shining a more or less “white” light. I thought that the colors of the ink would show but they are way too opaque and appear black.
Still I was very happy with how it turned out.
My favorite inks and, especially, ink bottles are the Pilot Iroshizuku ink from Japan. It is expensive, but I save the bottles and reuse them. When I have something I want to accomplish I will give myself the reward of a bottle of Iroshizuku if I meet the goal, as an incentive. I love the little well in the bottom to help get the last bit of ink out. The glass is heavy and really attractive.
Down on the end of the shelf are four bottles of vintage Waterman ink. I bought these in a box at an estate sale for a dollar. They are old (the blue ink in the photo above is called “Florida Blue” has a new name now – “Serenity Blue”) but it seems to still work well. Very well-behaved ink.
If you look on the shelf you can see a couple of vintage Sheaffer Skrip ink bottles. I’m always looking for these at antique stores and such. The ink is long gone, but I refill them with modern ink from boring bottles. What is cool about these vintage bottles is that they have a little well along the lip of the bottle. When the bottle is almost empty, you tip the bottle up to fill the well. You can get the tip of a fountain pen in there and thereby use every drop.
It doesn’t work as well as it should (the well is too small for some modern large-nibbed fountain pens) but I still like the idea and history.
My boy, that was a TV show. I used a stunt double. I always use a stunt double. Except in love scenes. I insist on doing those myself.
—-William Shatner
So, I finished The Brothers Karamazov along with my reading group. While working my way through the book, I did as much “research” as I could – as you know, today, “research” means searching YouTube.
And I discovered there was a movie made when I was one year old from the book The Brothers Karamazov. I didn’t want to watch the movie until I finished the book, but I did watch the trailer.
And now that I’ve finished the book I went searching through the streaming channels and found it on Turner Movie Classics.
The movie was surprisingly good. Of course there is no way to cram an eight hundred page novel into one movie, but it was still enjoyable. The philosophical content was pretty much gone – no mention of The Grand Inquisitor or of the torture of children. What was left behind was melodrama rather than great art – but good melodrama nonetheless.
A couple of points:
Grushenka was played by the actress Maria Schell who had starred in Gervaise, the adaptation of Zola’s L’assommoir which I wrote about last year. I was disappointed in her Grushenka (probably my favorite character in the book) – her beauty was put to good use, but she grinned and hammed her way through the part. I think she missed the depth and pathos of Grushenka.
One shock when you see the trailer is that Alyosha (Alexei) (the so-called “hero” of the book) is played by an impossibly young William Shatner. It’s crazy to see Captain Kirk in a monk’s habit and haircut. Alexei is the quiet, reserved, and religious brother – not exactly Kirk material. The shocking thing is how good a job he does with the part. It is nice to see Shatner in a part where he is not chewing the scenery.
The story is concentrated on Dimitri. It’s a shame that Ivan gets such little screen time. He is in many ways the more interesting brother. But there isn’t time for more and to a great extent the more Yul Brynner the better.
And finally, the ending is completely changed. Gone is the bittersweet and ambiguous ending of the novel and in its place, a Hollywood happy ending.
A disappointment, I guess, but it is Hollywood, not a vast Russian tale of subtle philosophical ideas after all.
I guess it’ll do.
“The world says: “You have needs — satisfy them. You have as much right as the rich and the mighty. Don’t hesitate to satisfy your needs; indeed, expand your needs and demand more.” This is the worldly doctrine of today. And they believe that this is freedom. The result for the rich is isolation and suicide, for the poor, envy and murder.”
― Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
We finished our reading group (The Wild Detective’s DRBC [Difficult Reading Book Club]) attack on Dostoevsky Brothers Karamazov. Seven hundred thirty six-odd, dense pages. This is definitely the way to devour an elephant like that: broken up into manageable chunks and each followed by a weekly Zoom meeting to discuss and clarify the confusion.
I actually sort-of read the book in college. It was assigned on, say, Thursday and I had to write a paper on the next Wednesday. That’s not enough time. Not surprisingly, I have no real memory other than a feeling of panic and dread. And the memory of relying too much on a little yellow pamphlet.
The Brothers Karamazov is often mentioned in short lists of the greatest novels of all time. That’s a bold statement, but one I can support.
First, it is a novel of ideas. Philosophical questions are presented and then played out across the stage of the plot. The plot is complex yet melodramatic. There are many things, a whole tangled skein of threads, going on at once. Reading it like this, especially in the excellent Pevear/Volokhonsky translation, is how much humor there is in the book. The characters are deep and complex, and the novel uses a lot of literary devices that are considered “modern” (unreliable narrators, stories within stories within stories, subtle shifting points of view, ambiguous ending, unknown first person plural narrator) which helps keep the dense text fresh.
It is the story of faith against rationality. There is no doubt on which side Dostoevsky sympathies lie – but he does not give his intellectual adversaries short thrift. He has the courage to give the other argument strong, even unassailable defenses and weapons. There is no straw man here. It makes for robust conflict and gives the reader incredible insight and the opportunities for hours of thought.
Faith and Doubt, Free Will (Dostoevsky acknowledges the existence of free will and understands that it is the key to salvation, but paints it not as a blessing, but as a curse – as a terrible burden that will flatten and destroy all but the strongest of men), and the need for moral simplicity and clarity are the battlefields that the novel is fought over… and the victor is very much in doubt.
Plus, I learned a new word… nadryv, And wrote about it here.
“The heart of man is very much like the sea, it has its storms, it has its tides and in its depths it has its pearls too”
― Vincent van Gogh, The Letters of Vincent van Gogh
In perusing the interwebs I came across a nice list of ten online long(er)-form short stories. So I’ll test the patience and attention span of everyone in this best of all possible worlds and slide away from flash fiction for a while.
from The New Yorker
“Naturally, the system would have to be rigidly closed, recycling all food, air, and other expendables. But, of course, that’s just how the Earth operates—on a slightly larger scale.”
― Arthur C. Clarke, Rendezvous with Rama
Orion was late and he was keeping Jemma waiting. Orion was never late. Jemma was thirteen and Orion was her best friend and she was sure that he would be her best friend for her entire life and she was upset that he was making her wait. She was also upset at the odd conversation they had by text that morning.
“Will you be at the park today,” said Orion.
“Same as ever Saturday,” was her reply.
“Good, I have a surprise,” said Orion.
“Really? What is it?”
“Wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“Oh. Can’t wait.”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Are you afraid of spiders?” asked Orion.
“Very.”
“Shame, we’ll see.”
And Jemma was very afraid of spiders, even though she had never actually seen one. Probably, she thought, she was especially afraid of them because she had never seen one. There is that human natural fear, of spiders and snakes and things like that, with nothing to ameliorate it – no exposure. That’s what she had been taught in school, how different things were now and how careful they all had to be. How there was so little room for error.
And now Orion was there, coming up the slight rise in the park where Jemma was sitting, cross-legged, on the lush lawn. He was lugging a large box.
“You’re late,” said Jemma.
“Sorry, couldn’t be helped.”
“Is that my surprise?”
“It sure is!”
“Are there spiders in that box?”
“Yes, there are. Now, Jemma, don’t be afraid. They are very carefully bred and trained and aren’t dangerous. They are wonderful and I can’t wait for you to meet them,” said Orion.
Orion set the box down on the grass and carefully lifted the lid. Jemma felt her heart leap and her face became hot as she peeked over the edge.
The box was full of spiders, each one carefully folded and packed in tightly. The ones on the top began to unfold, stand, and walk smoothly out of the box. They began to congregate on the ground all around the box, moving and continuing to unfold.
“They have wings!” Jemma said. “Spiders don’t have wings!”
“They don’t… but these do,” said Orion. “We bred them from spider DNA and then combined them with genes from giant butterflies that we developed. It was a delicate and extensive project. Once we built them we bred them and then trained them. Watch what they can do!”
The spiders spread their huge brightly colored wings. Some were a deep cerulean blue, shot-through with some kind of gold sparkles, others were blood-red and still others were a buttery yellow. Most were single colors but others were mottled with black veins.
They began to flap their wings with preternatural speed and then, one by one, they lifted into the sky over the park. When there was a dense cloud they moved over until they were clustered directly over Jeamma.
“Orion! I’m afraid! What are they doing?”
“Now Jemma, it’s important that you relax. Lie down and stretch out. This will be wonderful. You trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” answered Jemma.
“Then take it easy. Watch this.”
Silver threads started dropping from the flying spiders directly toward Jemma.
“Orion! They are making webs. I’ve read about this. What will happen?”
“Watch, Jemma, you’ll like it. Don’t be afraid.”
The webs reached Jemma and stuck to her. Hundreds descended and began attaching themselves all over her body. Arms, legs, and torso were covered with strands extending upward. They were careful about where they attached – avoiding her face but reaching around and cradling her head in a mass of threads.
“The webs are stronger than steel, Jemma. Don’t thrash around, stay as still as you can.”
Jemma felt the fear subsiding. There was something comforting about the mass of webs and how they seemed to know where to attach, where to stick. She could feel them tugging against her here and there. She began to feel strangely relaxed.
“Ok, Jemma,” said Orion, “here we go!”
The hum of wings overhead became louder and louder until it was a roar of hundreds of wings furiously flapping. The tugging of the threads became stronger and stronger until Jemma felt herself being lifted off of the ground. It was oddly relaxing and comfortable, a gentle tugging spread out evenly over her entire body. She spread her arms and legs to be as stable as she could.
“That’s it Jemma, let them take you.” Orion said from below.
Jemma was able to turn her head and watch the park fall away. As she gained altitude she could see the ground, which felt flat when you were on it, curve up and away on either side. As she, and the spider/butterflies, moved away from the edge of the vast cylinder the gravity, produced by centripetal acceleration was less and the roar of the wings became quieter as their weight faded. Jemma looked up at the sun-tube that ran down the center of the axis. It was closer than she had ever seen it.
“They are trained to stay away from that,” Orion said, “One of the first testers flew too close to the sun-tube and the webs melted. He fell.”
Orion had flown up on the jets attached to his carapace and was hovering right next to Jemma. His circuits were humming, a laser probe flashed out onto her, and Jemma knew he was scanning, checking on her reactions and emotions. Orion was always paying attention and doing what he could to make sure she was safe and happy. Jemma knew she loved him.
“Orion, I’ve always wanted to fly like you,” said Jemma. “Now I can.”
“Well, not like me, exactly. But I knew you’d enjoy the ride.”
“But why did you build these? Just for me?”
“Not exactly. We’re always working on the genetics and learning what we can do. It will be hundreds of generations for you and your people before we reach Tau Ceti and we have to make sure we are able to insure survival. We’re not even completely sure about what we’ll find when we get there. There is no room for error.”
Jemma didn’t answer. She was leaning back and looking past the sun-tube at the other side of the cylinder. There were green splotches of trees, winding blue streams, and gray paths. It was all so beautiful, so planned, so perfect. So little room for error.
“I am losing precious days. I am degenerating into a machine for making money. I am learning nothing in this trivial world of men. I must break away and get out into the mountains to learn the news”
― John Muir
In perusing the interwebs I came across a nice list of ten online long(er)-form short stories. So I’ll test the patience and attention span of everyone in this best of all possible worlds and slide away from flash fiction for a while.
All Saint’s Mountain by Olga Tokarczuk
from Hazlit
Bill Chance 