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[malsperanza]

Sunny Septemberish weather in the 60s, and NYC in serene weekend mode.

Tore the house apart trying to find long-neglected vols. of lit theory. Truly, there is nothing dustier than unread books. Found them 2 rows back behind a shelf of poetry and a row of books about South America. Ran many errands, went to the local Cuban place & ate mofongo for lunch (yum) and read Mikhail Bakhtin on dialogism and the carnivaleque and made notes about slash, to my own amusement.

Bought a spigot. A rather nice, upscale, overpriced one with porcelain handles. Came home and managed to chip a great whacking chunk of enamel off the sink trying to remove the old spigot. Stared at mess. Abandoned task (will acknowledge incompetence in plumbing matters and ask super to do it). Abandoned Bakhtin (having carried out my own exercise in the carnivalesque in the kitchen).

Will reread Tristram Shandy instead. ("...Right glad I am, that I have begun the history of myself in the way I have done; and that I am able to go on tracing every thing in it, as Horace says, ab Ovo. Horace, I know, does not recommend this fashion altogether: But that gentleman is speaking only of an epic poem or a tragedy; -- (I forget which) -- besides, if it was not so, I should beg Mr. Horace's pardon; -- for in writing what I have set about, I shall confine myself neither to his rules, nor to any man's rules that ever lived...") Hee.

Because am still all broody and pissed off over a truly irritating roundtable lecture last night that I went to in the naive belief that I might learn something ("Cultural Heritage in War: Moral and Military Choices"). One speaker was utterly vile and hateful (Edward Luttwak,no surprise); one was snotty and presented a flabby and careless argument (David Rieff, who should know better), and one was wonderful (Zainab Bahrani, who was attacked ad hominem by the other two during the question period). Really, this is a staggeringly rightwing, racist country. It still surprises me. I wonder how the hell we get away with it.

Comments

[black-dog.livejournal.com]

Oh multiple rows of books is a recipe for doom, doom! A fate I reserve only for pocket paperbacks because you just lose sight of the books forever -- but maybe you have some of those lovely deep bookcases and not the portable Ikea kind. (Says the person who has one bookcase in front of another, at a slight angle, because he ran out of wallspace.)

Was cheerfully braindead today, though I spent a bit of time blocking out a reply to your fascinating post. May post tomorrow if I can tear myself away from wonderful fall weather long enough to finish it.

I'm sorry for your unfortunate cultural experience. Am entertaining myself with carnivalesque images of noncon!bloodplay!bottom!Luttwak.

[malsperanza.livejournal.com]

Yes, but of course some books it's just as well to lose sight of for a while. *points to poor dusty Bakhtin, exiled in death as in life*

I've thought of getting some of those compact library shelves on wheels that crank together to save space, except I am pretty sure I would kill a cat or two.

carnivalesque images of noncon!bloodplay!bottom!Luttwak.

:D Yah, new word: a luttwak is a sort of grisly, pointless, noncon, Cold War-style smackdown, or else someone who takes part in such things:

Lucius threw back his head and laughed.

"You dare to challenge me??" he sneered. "Well, bring it on, foul dwimmerlaik!" He drew his sword in one fluid motion, like a heron rising.

The Dementor shivered and shimmered, releasing an odor of rotten fish. It was laughing. "You pathetic luttwak," it hissed. "I will strip the meat from your bones like teenagers at a barbecue." It advanced slowly through a miasma of swamp-gas and flies. "I will use your guts for dental floss!"

"Well, you sure need to use something," muttered Lucius. "Hah!" he said more loudly, stepping forward. "You want a luttwak? I'll give you a luttwak you won't soon forget!" With his nonsword hand, he pulled off a shoe and banged it on a nearby podium. "I will bury you!!" And brought down his sword, whistling through the air like a missile.

[black-dog.livejournal.com]

I've thought of getting some of those compact library shelves on wheels that crank together to save space, except I am pretty sure I would kill a cat or two.

Oh, those are terrifying. One of our libraries when I was at school had a whole bunch of huge stacks like that, with a motor that probably could have driven the gates at the Hoover dam. Supposedly, there were sensors in the floor panels so that the stacks would never close in and crush an unwary undergraduate. But I always took my heart in my mouth to retrieve a book from deep in the middle of the aisle.

Luttwak. Luttwak luttwak luttwak.

The sword whistled through the air and buried itself in the wooden floor, a good three or four feet short of the dementor. Despite Lucius' aggressive threat posture, he had evidently not yet developed a truly intercontinental ballistic range.

The dementor sneered, and drew his cortisone-wracked body fully upright. "We will pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, up to a culminating point beyond which, by paradoxical logic, victory becomes defeat. So don't push it too far, or we'll sic the Agency on you."

Lucius glared back at the dementor. "I'll step on your corns any time I want," he said. The dementor lunged at him, but was restrained by one of his aides, who looked a bit like him. "Come on, dude. Let's go dunk some hookers." After a final exchange of surly glances, the dementors glided out of the room.

Privately, Lucius pondered his options for getting even. There was a small private island he knew about, just off the coast of Azkaban . . .

[malsperanza.livejournal.com]

*eyes anniversary; applauds timely homage*

Privately, Lucius pondered his options for getting even. There was a small private island he knew about, just off the coast of Azkaban . . .

"But no," he thought, "that would be too easy." The real problem was not a bunch of lousy dementors; dementors were just the frontmen. In order to triumph, he would have to attack his great rival directly, the Power that crouched like a suppurating luttwak in the heart of the Evil Empire...the Empire that by rights was his, his!

But how? His enemy was too well-guarded, skulking hidden and unreachable behind walls of iron. No, the only way was to find a surrogate, a client of the Enemy, and beat the crap out of him.

Brooding, Lucius strode to the immense Wizarding World Map that covered one curved wall of his office, and stared at it broodingly. Suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed. Of course! How simple! He would use his Agents of the Dark Side to attack ... there! One small push in that weak spot, and the whole edifice of his enemies would topple like, well, like dominos! And he wouldn't even need an army to do it; just a small, well-trained force could do the trick easily.

He strode to the fireplace and threw some sparkly green powder onto the flames. "Quick," he snapped at the servile face that appeared among the embers. "Mobilize the Luttwakke!"

[black-dog.livejournal.com]

Lucius was tired. The stories about Madam Minerva's taste in opera had not been exaggerated, but the payoff for his endurance was a jovial meeting with the Great Helmsman of Hogwarts himself. The elderly wizard was no fan of Lucius, but perhaps they could come to an understanding about humiliating the Dementors.

"There is great disorder under heaven," said Dumbledore with a twinkle, "and the situation is excellent! Have a chocolate-creme luttwak! Have two!" The talked turned to strategy, and to drawing the dementors more deeply into a certain unpromising regional adventure. "If we wish to make them lay it down, we must persuade them to bring it first," said the Headmaster, nodding. "How can one lay it down if he hasn't already brought it?" His laugh turned into a hacking cough that persisted for several minutes.

* * *

As the morning sun burned the fog off the rice paddies, only the steady luttwakluttwakluttwak of an Azkeban chopper broke the silence of the village. Suddenly there was a bright flash and the arc of a surface to air missle, and the cluster of rickety hooches exploded.

The chopper circled, and the Sergeant and Lieutenant peered out for signs of illicit military hardware. There were none. "We got the wrong guys," said the Sergeant. "Pretty wack, Lieut." The Lieutenant shrugged, and flicked a maggot from his scaly carcass. "Let's get back to base. I'm hungry for some hearts and minds, how about you?"

[malsperanza.livejournal.com]

"Pretty wack, Lieut."

You are pure evil.

*Hands black dog a box of chocolate-creme luttwaks*

*retreats to plot and scheme*

[black-dog.livejournal.com]

You are pure evil.

Says the person who came up with "Mobilize the Luttwakke!"

*Hands black dog a box of chocolate-creme luttwaks*

*Wolfs them down. Licks the box.*

*retreats to plot and scheme*

Bring it.

[chresimos.livejournal.com]

Pray tell, what is a Tristram Shandy?

[malsperanza.livejournal.com]

An English novel by Laurence Sterne, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gent., published in 1767, and therefore one of the first novels per se, but also probably the most postmodern novel ever written. It is also incredibly funny.

Tristram Shandy announces that he is going to tell the story of his life (beginning with the night he was conceived), but he never quite gets around to it, because he keeps digressing. You have never seen so many digressions. In fact, there are so many that it's impossible to read the book straight through; it's too frustrating.

In an attempt to get on with it, he draws failed diagrams of how the book should progress; at one point he gets fed up and decides to just stop (this is followed by a page printed to look like a marbled endpaper). At another point a favorite character dies, and he prints an all-black page, in mourning. Etc.

The 18th c prose takes some getting used to, but then it is laugh-out-loud funny and also very wise. A few pages of Shandy are a sure antidote to the obnoxiousness of contemporary life. More than a few at a time will drive you mad.