Oh my god:
Be pleased then, you, the living, in your delightfully warm bed, before Lethe's ice-cold wave will lick your escaping foot.
-- Goethe, Roman Elegies
Lethe: In Greek mythology, one of the rivers of Hades whose waters will cause complete forgetfulness.
I must read Goethe.
(I found the line from a review of You, The Living.)
Last week I went to view flats and at the second flat we went to, the agent who greeted us asked, "Who is the buyer?" I said, "Me," and he stared at me and said, "Huh?! So young? How old are you?"
Asshole.
Anyway I was thinking about it today and then I tried to move on to the next part of the memory, which was my reply, but then I realised that I'd forgotten my age. I couldn't remember what number I gave him because I honestly forgot how old I was. The first thing that came to my mind was 26, but then I thought, no... that's too old. I'm 25, right?
Because a couple of years ago when I was 24 I kept thinking I was 26 so lately I have a tendency not to take myself seriously when I think about how old I am.
But no. I really am 26 now.
Oh my God, you know. Jonathan Safran Foer had his first book published at 26. Zadie Smith too, I think. What have I done with my life?
Ok so I just had this will-we-ever-make-something-of-ourselves conversation with Joon the other day and we resolved that quite peaceably but obviously this is not the kind of thing that you just put to rest and never think about ever again.
What it is, really, is a widening chasm of fear.
Sometime back I said I was tired of waiting for life to start and back then I thought life would start when I got married and I got my freedom. But with marriage looming I am starting to realize that marriage is not the freedom I thought it would be. It’s so foolish to have thought marriage equated to freedom in the first place, but that’s what you do when you live in a prison – you feed yourself hope, even if it’s based on a lie.
Would marriage give me the life that I always thought I wanted? Maybe not. I don’t know if I’ll ever be happy. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel as if I am living life the way I want to and not dictated by someone else, or other people.
Why is it that whenever I finish a book, I can never decide what to read next, despite the fact that I have close to 40 unread books on my shelves (and table and floor)?
Anyway. How effective would a theme-based reading regime be? I just read this weekend's New York Times reviews, which focus on Chinese books and now of course I want to read Chinese books. If I spent a month or two reading only Chinese books, or Jewish or African or whatever, would it make me want to shoot myself?
There is such a feeling of dread that sloshes around inside me at the thought of the weekend ending. I will be listening to a nice song, and then when the singer hits a particular note of yearning, I will be reminded of work. Or the reminder could come in the middle of a TV show, for no reason at all. Even while reading a book, I could suddenly think of work if I come across any word that is related to the tasks I have awaiting me in the office.
The dread starts right at the centre of my chest, then throbs its way down to my stomach and my legs. Finally, I feel the dread in the soles of my feet, like a prickle. I have to squeeze my toes to make it go away, but it only travels back up to my chest, hiding in wait until the next reminder of work welcomes it back out again.
Will I ever reach a point in my life where I wouldn't fear Mondays anymore? I don't think so. Throughout my working adult life, it will be the thought of work that haunts me, and after retirement it will be death.
That's Saturday night optimism for you.
You think me jaded and effete. You are mistaken. If you are delicious, if you have lovely eyes,..., if your body and mind... are so lithe and tender that I feel I could mingle more intimately with your thoughts by sitting on your lap..., there is nothing in all that to deserve your contemptuous words.
- 16-year-old Marcel Proust, to a classmate who had jilted him
1. Read for yourself
Find the people you know in the books you read. Find yourself, even, in the characters of 200 years ago. They say things you have never dared to speak aloud, they feel things you have tried to suppress for fear of being perverse. The author, if he/she is a good one, will describe these feelings better than you can and you will learn that you are not alone. Even Anna Karenina, after all, is petty, insecure and irrational in ways that you have always found shameful in yourself.
2. Take your time
If it takes 17 pages to describe how you can't fall asleep, then take 17 pages. N'allez pas trop vite. Don't jump straight to the meeting, speak first of the rustling of papers, the false sincerity of handshakes, the sweetness of the macaroons. There is more to every story, and anything can be a starting point from which your masterpiece will bloom.
3. Suffer successfully
It's only when you suffer or feel pain that you'll learn something. You wouldn't read up on gastrointestinal machinations until you've suffered indigestion or gastric flu. Suffering is the root of great ideas. If you have syphilis, go and write Fleurs du Mal. Don't be a bad sufferer. Apologise after committing a faux pas, don't take your bitterness out on someone else, don't pretend not to care when you truly desire something that someone else has, if you're ignorant about something, don't be afraid to ask. You can feel sorry for yourself but be honest to your pain.
4. Express your emotions honestly
Avoid clichés. Find your own way to describe the rain, the moon, the Angkor Wat. To rely on worn out phrases is to shut yourself out of your own personal experience and feeling, and to deny that each sunrise, each storm is unique. Don't try to write like someone else. Don't try to talk like someone else. Don't pick up expressions that you've heard other people say just because you think they will make you sound worldly or attractive.
Joon and I have started a new blog where we'll write about things we like and want to share with you. It's called The Portable Reader's Guide to Good Things. There isn't much up yet because we just started it today, but we promise lots of, well, good things to come.
If you have anything you think we should recommend, write us at theportableguide AT gmail DOT com.
Thank you and have a nice day.
Men are all the same. They say they'll call, but they won't. This is basically the root of all problems.
I'm so upset. I'm so upset. I'm so upset. We fritter away time as if we have so much of it. I feel like handing in my resignation letter. Then I'll really have time to waste and no reason to complain when a bit of it is squandered.
On that note, I know my Vietnam trip was 4 months ago and I really should have stopped talking about it by now, but... I haven't travelled since then. I feeling like it's now about time to take another trip (somewhere easier on my nerves this time), but I can't use my savings for a trip now that I have to save for a future house and whatnot. Which is why I've just spent a week lounging around at home to clear my leave.
In fact I don't even know if the Russian and I will be going on a honeymoon this year. Maybe a tiny one, to like, Thailand, IF we can afford it. Unless we don't manage to find a house at all by the time we get married, then... who knows. Chile, Alaska, Russia or Portugal? I would just die to go to one of these places this year. If not, well, hopefully our marriage will last long enough for us to visit these places together. That would be a mighty long time, though. I'm not sure if we really can last...
Ok yeah that's not funny, but that's because you weren't at our marriage course. The instructor that we disliked the most asked each person in the room, "How long do you think your marriage will last?"
Well, he asked everyone except the Russian, because the Russian was fast asleep.
Even after the first TEN people said, "Err... forever? I hope?" or "Until one of us dies" or something to that extent, the guy still went on asking each person to answer his fucked up stupid question. So I had to answer his fucked up stupid question about how long I felt my marriage would last to the catatonic man next to me. (I said "Until death, if everything goes as planned.")
When the Russian woke up, I told him about it. He said, "Really? Why didn't you wake me up?"
Anyway we then joked about what a good answer would be.
"How long do you think your marriage will last?"
"I don't know... probably not very long. I'm not in this for the long-term."
I should be sleeping now because I have to wake up early but my brain is still quite active. I was lying in bed just a while ago trying to let my thoughts run their course and into the darkness but instead I ended up with the urge to write. I was thinking first about my snoring, and then about how I always worry that I'll wake up my hotel roommate(s) with my snoring when I travel. Xai complained about it one night in Hanoi. The Russian is already used to it although it wakes him up quite often. In KL, Mel said she didn't hear me snore at all, but I don't know if she was just trying to save me some embarrassment.
Then of course I thought about travelling, and the first thing I thought about travelling was Vietnam. I suddenly remembered Raph.ael the Australian who gave us too much to pay for his share of the cab ride, and whom we bumped into again while contemplating the strangest hot dog sandwich in the world at the pit stop between Hanoi and Hai Phong.
Then I thought about that cab ride. How we dropped Raph.ael off first at Hang Bac, which looked like a really happening street to be on, and then finally got off at our own street, Hang Ga, and saw it for the first time with not a little twinge of disappointment. Well, I don't know for sure about the Russian but I was disappointed. There wasn't really a buzz, or any cool shops, just the usual loud honking and hawkers selling bamboo, household items and unappetising street food.
Hanoi was not a surprise in the way one hopes all of one's travel destinations will be. It was more of a shock. The unexpected cacophony of traffic, the nerve-wracking unfriendliness of the streets and sidewalks, especially to people like us who wanted just to walk. The reign of motorcycles here was something I was not prepared for, nor made aware of during my research and planning of the trip. How can something called so charmingly "The Old Quarter" be like this?
Vietnam was... difficult. I don't recall the trip without fondness but much of my recollections are overwhelmed with fear and anxiety -- and I'm not even talking about the end part with the hospital. I just mean the tripping over motorcycle wheels and balancing by the side of open drains and, of course, the road crossings.
That first day that we got to Hanoi and dropped off at Hang Ga, I was so tired and scared of the Hanoi outside that I didn't really feel like leaving the room. Yet I hated the room too, and I didn't want to stay in for long. I found the dilemma so exhausting. Not that I'm used to luxury -- we stayed at similar types of lodgings in Laos and Cambodia -- but the combination of the hostile exterior and the uncomfortable shelter was enough to drive me close to homesickness. I was just grateful I had the Russian with me, someone whose fleshy bit between the shoulder and the chest I could rest my head on to regain some sense of security.
But that's the kind of situation that brings people together. When Xai arrived the next morning and said, "I don't like this place," and when I asked him, "You mean this hostel or Hanoi?" and he said, "Hanoi," it was that kind of moment where you know you're not alone and that for the next four days or so, someone else will be cowering by the side of the road with you, refusing to cross.
