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Saturday, February 14th, 2009
How beautiful it is, this world, even if it is only a simulacrum. At least there is that to fall back on.
I'm trying to figure out what I think about the new direction Coetzee is taking in the last part of Elizabeth Costello. It is very much unexpected, which I count as a good thing. I'm having some trouble figuring out quite how to relate it to the rest of the book; but there is a general sense that the relationship exists -- Costello's character is the same, the narrator's voice is the same. I'm holding out hope they will be sewn together in the final ten pages.'What are you saying in your confession?''What I said before: that I cannot afford to believe. That in my line of work one has to suspend belief. [Ooh, lovely! -- ed.] That belief is an indulgence, a luxury. That it gets in the way.' 'Really. Some of us would say the luxury that we cannot afford is unbelief.' She waits for more. 'Unbelief -- entertaining all possibilities, floating between opposites -- is the mark of a leisurely existence, a leisured existence,' the woman goes on. 'Most of us have to choose. Only the light soul hangs in the air.' She leans closer. 'For the light soul, let me offer a word of advice. They may say they demand belief, but in practice they will be satisfied with passion. Show them passion and they will let you through.' 'Passion?' she replies. 'Passion the dark horse? I would have though that passion leads one away from the light, not towards it. Yet in this place, you say, passion is good enough.' I am liking the juxtaposition of belief and passion a lot. Costello thinks the line "Only the light soul hangs in the air" must be a quotation; I am not finding anything to back this up.
posted afternoon of February 14th, 2009: Respond
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Seated at one of the pavement tables she briskly composes what is to be her statement. I am a writer, a trader in fictions, it says. I maintain beliefs only provisionally: fixed beliefs would stand in my way. I change beliefs as I change my habitation or my clothes, according to my needs. On these grounds -- professional, vocational -- I reqest exemption from a rule of which I now hear for the first time, namely that every petitioner at the gate should hold one or more beliefs. She takes her statement back to the guardhouse. As she half expected, it is rejected.  And we are getting down, here, to the heart of the matter -- this is what I think. As Chapter 8 opens, Coetzee manages to startle me once again, changing his narrative style completely (while continuing to narrate in the same voice), veering into Kafkaesque allegory -- he acknowledges as much a few pages later but calls it "Kafka reduced and flattened to a parody."Costello is speaking to my concerns earlier about how nobody in this novel seems to be attached to the arguments they are making; she is a writer, a vessel for words and beliefs (like Mary or Leda is a vessel for God's seed -- I'm not sure yet what to make of this parallel but it is definitely front and center). I have got the feeling that Coetzee is writing in his own voice here -- should be wary of this given the repeated cautioning against it earlier in the book -- I was wondering, when Elizabeth defends herself against the charge that she has ignored the genocide of the Tasmanians (and implicitly, that she as a white Australian is not sensitive to issues of imperialism and oppression), whether Coetzee faces similar charges as a white South African. Perhaps the student in Chapter 1 was meaning to launch an attack on these grounds?
posted morning of February 14th, 2009: Respond
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Friday, February 13th, 2009
At the park near our house, Ellen got some great shots of a large bird that we believe to be a hawk (Update -- apparently it is a juvenile red-tail hawk):
-- also there are some pictures of Sylvia's classroom at the Family Album. Ellen has written a new article at Patch.com, about what summer activities are available for kids around here: Look No Further Than Your Own Backyard.
posted evening of February 13th, 2009: Respond
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This passage is just too awesome:
Magnificat Dominum anima mea, Mary is reputed to have said afterwards, perhaps misheard from Magnam me facit Dominus. That is pretty much all she says in the Gospels, this maid who is matchless, as though struck dumb for the rest of her life by what befell her. No one around her has the shamelessness to question what must surely have occurred to people, to her girlfriends in Nazareth for instance. How did she bear it? they must have whispered among themselves. It must have been like being fucked by a whale. It must have been like being fucked by the Leviathan; blushing as they spoke the word, those barefoot children of the tribe of Judah, as she, Elizabeth Costello, almost catches herself blushing too, setting it down on paper.
posted evening of February 13th, 2009: Respond
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Another chapter of Elizabeth Costello, another bunch of references.
Robert Duncan is an American poet from California. (Ellen has heard him read but says he was "considered old-fashioned" by her cohort.) Elizabeth heard him read "A poem beginning with a line from Pindar", the only time she met him, and it turned her on. She thinks of him while reading Susan Mitchell's prose poem  "Erotikon (a Commentary on «Amor and Psyche»)" (this link is to Google Books, I'm not sure if it remains usable in the long term.)
And shall I come sweet sex to thee
bound truelovewise?
O take fast hold, said Sex to me,
of the moneybox, and night was our koine
with its bleats and glottic stops
its suctions and seductions.
All night we laved a fierce lallation.
Wake now, my love, I said to Sex.
Be not overly
subtle with periods and semicolons.
Take fast hold of the quim and quid.
By morning I was catamount.
Sex was microcephalic.
The legend of Eros and Psyche, which I feel like I really ought to know already, is the story of Venus attempting to humiliate her mortal daughter Psyche by the agency of her divine son Eros. (Duncan's poem also has reference to this legend.) Why the interest in Psyche among American poets, she wonders? Do they find something American in her, the girl who, not content with the ecstasies provided night after night by the visitor to her bed, must light a lamp, peel back the darkness, gaze on him naked? In her restlessness, her inability to leave well enough alone, do they see something of themselves? Anybody know what is the movie referenced here:
She thinks of a movie she saw once, that might have been written by Nathanael West though in fact it wasn't: Jessica Lange playing a Hollywood sex goddess who has a breakdown and ends up in the common ward of a madhouse, drugged, lobotomized, strapped to her bed, while orderlies sell tickets for ten minutes at a time with her. 'I wanna fuck a movie star!' pants one of their customers, shoving his dollars at them.
Please speak up in comments if you know. (Update: paledave says it is Frances (1982).)
Interesting that this is the first chapter not to include a speech. This makes me think the talk on censorship in Chapter 6 was a turning point for the novel, and that Coetzee is giving us an interlude here. (Would kind of like to know how the conference in Chapter 6 played out, what were the repercussions for Costello and for her reputation...)
posted evening of February 13th, 2009: 4 responses
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 So I've been walking around for a couple of weeks with a new glasses prescription in my pocket... Finally today I took it in to the shop and bought a new pair of glasses, and wow! It is like stepping through a portal into a new reality, one where lines are much sharper and more distinct. Suddenly the patches of color around me have definite shapes and are clearly separated from one anther. It is a pleasant sensation.
I took Ellen's advice on which frames to purchase (pictured above), probably a wise move -- initially I had my heart set on a pair of dark plastic round frames which (I thought) made me look a lot like Gary Shteyngart in this photo.
posted afternoon of February 13th, 2009: 2 responses
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I seem to have picked up several new readers in the last couple of weeks, bringing my total to the high single digits or low double digits. If you have recently started reading the site, and you don't mind if I know about it, please leave a comment on this post or at the Guestbook -- I'd love to know who I'm writing to. If you prefer to remain anonymous, no worries, disregard this post -- I understand that impulse as well.
 (A brief rundown of this blog's history, from last spring, in case that interests you. Kind of dull frankly.)
posted morning of February 13th, 2009: 2 responses
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 Not only is today Friday the 13th -- also it is a special day for the Unix clock. This evening at 30 seconds past 6:31, it is 1,234,567,890 seconds since the Unix epoch.
posted morning of February 13th, 2009: 1 response
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Thursday, February 12th, 2009
 Australian blogger Wildly Parenthetical linked a few weeks ago to the Cockatoo Island Project -- photographer Patrick Boland's documentary of the old, rusting disused installations on Cockatoo Island in Sydney harbor ("Peter Panâ??s Never Never Land for a photographer who likes industrial and historical decay"). Magnificent! (As Maurice said to me, "May we all decay so colorfully!")
posted evening of February 12th, 2009: 1 response
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Interesting, so now I'm reading Elizabeth Costello and I'm seeing arguments about morality and animal rights everywhere I look. Today Saramago is writing about lobsters and geese: Putting a living lobster in boiling water and cooking it is an old culinary practice in the western world. It seems that if the lobster were dead in the bath, its final flavor would be different, for the worse. There are furthermore those who say that the rosy color with which the crustacean leaves the pot is due precisely to the high temperature of the water. I don't know it, I'm saying what I've been told, I am incapable of properly frying an egg. One day I saw in a documentary how to prepare chickens, how to kill and butcher them, and I was very close to throwing up. And the other day, if I am remembering right, I read a magazine article about the use of rabbits in the manufacture of cosmetics, and there I found out that the tests to prevent any possible irritation caused by the ingredients of shampoos involve applying them directly to the eyes of these animals, after the fashion of the dreadful Dr. Death, who injected petroleum into the hearts of his victims. Now, a brief notice appears in the periodicals informing me of how, in China, the birds' feathers which are destined to be stuffing for pillows are plucked out the same way, while living, after which they are cleaned, disinfected, and exported for the enjoyment of civilized societies which find it proper and fashionable. I will not comment, it is not worth the trouble, these feathers are enough.
posted evening of February 12th, 2009: Respond
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