Lost: my jaw on the carpet

Some time has passed since I expressed my feeble opinion upon music. I must confess that I did have occasional flings with various songs but none lasted more than the spark of a match. But my heart was revived and I again love. Well…truth be said, it is an old love, a small flame left to kindle. The flame reached its fury when Muse set upon us “the Uprising”. (Beat that metaphor... :)) ).


I was going to comment on the interesting video : the mixture of comic and sinister atmosphere, find an explanation for the giant zombie teddy bears ( yes…you read correctly : G-I-A-N-T Z-O-M-B-I-E T-E-D-D-Y B-E-A-R-S) and such trifles. Or I could have commented the gradual building up of tension that the music creates, capturing the actual spirit of an uprising, or the strong lyrics. I was going to make a swift and clear analysis, but then I found this…





…And my jaw dropped and I died.


Your humble still-looking-for-jaw-and-dead servant,
Myself.

Looking to rent one room for self-usage only

I started reading the book with an apple in my hand. So it only seemed pure justice to commence the review in the said fashion. Thus with a hearty bite, I sink my teeth not only into the fruit but also into the matter debated by Virginia Woolf in her little “A room of one’s own”. This is the second little jewel found in Brasov and I recommend it best served cold with an apple. For the most frequent portrayal of the original sin, the fruit of knowledge is the perfect companion for a discussion about women and fiction. Therefore I invite you to an apple and may I ask…a thought…


I cannot honestly say I feel warmly towards Virginia Woolf. Though the fact that she is one of the greatest British writers is a mater of no debate, her style of prose is not one of my cups of tea. She rebels against the traditional, the Victorian construction of novel and prefers the stream of consciousness as her main weapon (when I come upon such a technique I suddenly feel the need to put a bullet through my brain and whistle through the hole). For those, as I, who dislike this more realistic depiction of the human brain, I do not recommend Mrs. Woolf. But the particular book I have read is written tolerably if not magnificently (depends on the taste of each reader). She uses a complicated and elevated vocabulary (to my genuine delight, and here I speak with no irony), all neatly sown with a thin thread of irony.


On the mater of subject: she attempts to give an answer to the question of where is the literary female equivalent of Shakespeare. And here is where the magic commences: if a female dared to follow the path of the said writer, the chains of society would have pulled her down. The fate of women those days were simple: grow, marry, breed and die. Are there any questions, any complains? If so, prepare for a beating, for total submission to the male figure (father, brother or husband) is expected. Thus Virginia follows the would-be-fate of Shakespeare’s sister (imaginary or not) if she would have taken the path of her “brother”. The title also refers to what was needed to a woman to compose: a room. A room of her own where in full intimacy, the female writer could lose herself in the art of composing.


But these are only few examples of what Virginia has to offer us in “A room of one’s own”. I recommend it fully and cast upon it the sentence of “a must reed”.


In the end I ask of my female readers to ponder on a question raised by Virginia:
“Are you aware that you are, perhaps, the most discussed animal in the universe?”

Your humble apple eating servant,
Myself.

Lost and Found: a schemer in close quarters

As I've mentioned in the previous post, I am in that period of the month when the female body rebels against its owner. Subsequently, I dwell in self-pity and pain and have cases of insomnia. But last night the burdens of Mother Nature proved to be useful. I present to you...in pure sherlockian style..."The case of the disappearing hamster"


The perpetrator of the extraordinary deed is a small-dark-fur-scoundrel of a hamster. Her name (for it is a she) is Eva. An adorable little creature but wild at heart and a passionate predisposition ( which in Victorian mentality is nothing less nothing more then criminal for a female to be). Thus her whole boring existence (it is indeed boring to be a hamster) is devoted to the fine art of chewing bars.


The action in question began at about 1. P.M After ending my nightly routine of cleansing I returned to my room in order to toss and turn in the comfort of my bed. As I seated myself my gaze wondered towards the resting place of the daemon. And what did my eyes perceive? The little creature was returning my gaze outside her quarters. Thus with a fine leap I was at her side ready to grab and squeeze her little neck, all this while uttering fine words fit for a lady such as myself. But catch what cannot be caught. She slipped through my fingers and after a long struggle I managed to trap her under the upper part of the cage. So with the culprit behind bars I was left to inspect the damages. The superior minds that created the design of the cage inserted a drawer for the purpose of evacuating the bedding. Well my little devil chewed it and pushed so as to create an escape route. Thus she escaped. Escape route 1… for she was not done. I managed to block route nr. 1 and as I lay with a hawk’s gaze upon her I was reworded a little surprise. She managed to break a little peace of horizontal metal bar so as to inset her pout between two vertical one and dislocate the left corner of the cage and slip out. I fought a little with her. The collateral victims of this confrontation were my finger and her nerves for I, after being bit, gave her a finger over the nose. Continuing with the language fitting for a lady I managed to transfer the creature into a round fish bole. Not very comfortable, as my mother cried for her, but it is sufficient enough to keep her enclosed. The solution at hand is to try to salvage the cage and secure it or acquire a new one. For bow the daemon is sleeping like a little angel with an infantile allure in the bowl, next to me. In the end I give you Eva. But beware foolish one, do not gaze in the eye of the beast for thou wilt be mesmerized. Under the guise of sweetness lies the ardent mind of a schemer.


Your humble annoyed servant,
Myself


P.S: Any comments in the form that the hamster is simply the reflection of the owner will be answered with a humph and a humbug.

Peculiar man, forever in love, waiting the death of a husband

For some time now I have been haunted by the thought of writing a review for a book I read some time ago. But the summer weather conditions, more precisely the stubborn sun, determined me to set a protective blanket over my brain. In a less sophisticated language: it was hot and I was lazy. But as the weather cools and the imminent arrival of October (joy of joys, faculty will commence once more, the final year…), a pang in my head begins to make its presence felt.... the pang of opinion. So with ardent fingers I translate the pang into words and rise from the pain my female body has chosen to inflict on me today, to bring you love. “Love in the time of cholera" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, of course.


Now as I mentioned, I am not a fan of anything glorying love and such, but I was aware of a movie with the same name. The movie I had not seen, but I did know of Shakira's contribution to the soundtrack (back then when she wasn't howling at the moon) and was rather charmed by it. Plus, I knew that the author received some worldwide recognition for his writings (some small thing called the Nobel Prize for Literature) and thus decided to buy the book (the penguin offer of 3 books by this author at 70 lei may have had an effect over my decision). I can't say I love the man but I can't say I don't. His books have that rare capacity to annoy and fascinate at the same time. You curse him, you criticize him, you laugh with him, and you can't forget the book. Now the particular subject of my scrutiny is called "Love in the time of cholera" and it begins with...


"It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of unrequited love"


The book is just about that: the love of Florentino Ariza for Fermina Daza. And it goes like this... They were young. He loved her. She loved him. Her father did not approve. He takes her away from him. Love still persists. She comes back. She sees him. He still loves her. She changes her mind. She marries a doctor. He vows eternal love for her. The doctor dies and the question that rises is: “But can young love find new life in the twilight of their lives?" (end quote from the back cover of the penguin edition). I'll let you find the answer though it rather disappointed me.
But the book does posses a certain degree of charm, the main characters for instance. Fermina Daza is a middle class girl of great beauty and strength of character, with no mother and an over-ambitious father. She marries the doctor out of pride and stubbornness. What more can I say, a woman after my own heart. And Florentino Daza was "very thin, with Indian hair plastered down with scented pomade and eyeglasses for myopia, which added to his forlorn appearance. Aside from his effective vision, he suffered from chronic constipation, which forced him to take enemas throughout his life.” Now at this point I started laughing. The book itself is written in this spirit: a beautiful image, classic if not a cliché, then an element of realism, shocking yet so bitterly true.


On a technical level: the narration is presented at a third person, nice images, nice language, nice construction of sentences (somewhat elaborate) all in a subtle sense of irony.


All in all, the book is nice and captivating, even though you come towards the end of the book and realize that nothing really happened. We go through the lives of the two characters, Fermina Daza's marriage and Florentino Ariza's little black book of "distractions” and that consist of 95 % of the book. And the conclusion of this love affair? Read and see.


Your humble and yawning servant,
Myself.

found: diary of a young girl

" 12 June 1942

I hope I will be able to confide everything to you,as I have never been able to confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support."

Thus we intrude in the 13th year of one called Anne Frank. I pray that are few among you whom are ignorant of what stands behind this simple name. If there are such, I will provide a link with the necessary information.( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Frank ) I beg of those to first acquire the given information to fully understand the review that follows. For yes, it is a review. The review of the book entitled… but first a few words of how it got into my attention and subsequently into my possession.
As mentioned in the previous post I had a little fun around the country. Well…amid my touristic adventures in Brasov I had the good fortune to come across the lovely bookshop called Okian. I am familiar with this brand from one of our local book fairs and thus was rather pleased to find it in my path. Thus with the background knowledge that the bookshop contains nourishment for my hunger for books written in Shakespeare's language, I merrily skipped inside and found myself literally drooling in front of a lovely shelf full with Penguin Classics. After an hour I emerged into the world with a dumb glow of happiness in my eyes and a somewhat aired wallet. What I bought will be revealed through reviews that will surely follow. And here is the review of one of them.
I have long been yearning to read “The Diary of a Young Girl- Anne Frank" ever since my 6th or 7th form when it popped up as a special chapter in our English textbook. I came across it last year in Sibiu but the price and my poor (or better-said nonexistent) knowledge of German, put it out of my reach. Thus imagine my joy when the book in question stood before my eyes in that sunny day in Brasov.
The book itself is written in a simple but coherent style with a first person narrative. The voice of the narrator is that of the girl that gives the title and it exploits the lives of 8 Jews: 2 families and one individual that are forced into hiding by the then current political conditions. Since the action takes place in the Second World War you can imagine the color of those conditions was.
I cannot be described as a sympathetic reader. I usually dislike the overuse of drama in my literature and I am more easily pleased if the hero dies in the end. Thus I was truly surprised that the girl's accounts of her every-day life could have such an effect on my little-sarcastic-self. She is such a tormented little thing with anxieties and worries and thought that we all have experienced at her age. Plus we feel their fear and relief before and after incidents in which they could have been discovered. And the most haunting of all is the knowledge of her end. The fact that I knew that she will never be able to become a journalist, to be different of the women of her kind and make her known through her work.
She did become known for her writing but her fame is crowned with tragedy not glory.

her truly humble servant,
Myself.

I still exist

After a long..long..long..period of silence, I return from the land of the dead known as final exams. Have I been missed? I doubt it. But if there are among you, few, whom find of interest my poor words..sorry. I'm going away this Tuesday. And my return? Next Tuesday. I shall visit some of the most interesting cities my country offers: Brasov, Sibiu, Cluj Napoca. And who knows...maybe I will return with a travel tale ..or two.
On a last note I begin from this day to contribute to the "CineBooks" blog. Hopefully, I won't lower the quality of execellence of the said blog. Thus said..

A tolerable night or day from your humble servant,
myself.