Crazy Jane:

Something I Like to Keep in Mind

Yeah, I'm always turning to works of literature for fortification. What of it?

One of my favorite sources is this incredibly beautiful book, which is never far from my bedside, so rich is it in just the right blend of sobriety, ethical rigor, and unflinching romanticism that I need to take everyday, like vitamins.

For Kierkegaard, it notes,  comparison is the source of all unhappiness. In light of that, Albert Camus advises himself, in his notebooks: "commit yourself completely, then show equal strength in accepting either yes, or no."

M. Camus sure was clever. Also, GREAT fashion.

Aye Me, What To Blog?

I don't mind telling you that I'm having a lot of trouble figuring out what to do with this space, lately.

I mean, sometimes I think: "I'm gonna tell stories about my life as an EXPAT in PRAGUE!" But, halfway through writing those tales of life abroad up, I've totally bored myself. So, nevermind. Then I think: "The hell with it! I'm going to just write about whatever I'm thinking about!" Then, halfway through a long treatise on the tension between authenticity and artifice as revealed by the latest breath taken by Trent Reznor, I realize that even though I'm totally not bored, the rest of the world is ready to freaking KILL ME. Best to CLAM IT.

So, I think, well, maybe everyone would like to read some excerpts from the Kierkegaard I've been reading...

That's actually a good idea. Here's one:

If there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the bottom of everything there were only a wild ferment, a power that twisting in dark passions produced everything great or inconsequential; if an unfathomable, insatiable emptiness lay hid beneath everything, what would life be but despair? If it were thus, if there were no sacred bond uniting mankind, if one generation rose up after another like the leaves of the forest, if one generation succeeded the other as the songs of birds in the woods, if the human race passed through the world as a ship through the sea or the wind through the desert, a thoughtless and fruitless whim, if eternal oblivion lurked hungerly for its prey, and there were no power strong enough to wrest it from its clutches -- how empty and devoid of comfort would life be?

Crushing question, yes, but is that a freaking beautiful passage of writing, or what? Jesus. I love Kierkegaard. Religious anxiety never made better reading.

On a similar tip, I could tell you all about the trouble I got into with this English guy I work with last Friday night, but MY DAD reads this website, you know? I don't think he wants to hear all about it, frankly. But, let's pretend you all already know about the trouble I got into. I could tell you about how weird it is to have felt bored by the whole thing before it was even over, and how all I can really say is that I sure hope he doesn't want me to be his girlfriend, or something, because seriously, I want something so much more undeniable, which I'm sure never to find because it's romantic bullshit that doesn't really exist. But, then again, my romantic angst and the latest evidence that I am going to die alone and be eaten by wild dogs is pretty boring, really. I think I'll spare you.

Here's the story, my friends: I live in Prague. It's beautiful here. Yesterday I spent a beautiful, wintery day in cafes with my dear friend, and walked through gorgeous, frigid cobbled streets. I bought a honeypot for my kitchen, and I'm growing hyacinths in a window box in my flat. At night I drink tea and eat chocolate in my PJ's and slippers. I have a cat who won't shut the hell up, and I live in a lovely, clean, peaceful place. I teach English, and it has it's ups and downs.  I'm generally happy, though I miss my friends and family.

Lately, I just don't have much to say. I'm sorry to be so quiet. I love you all, though.

Excerpts: Memoirs of The Crüe

Nikki Sixx on his juvenile delinquency:

"Then I got fired from Music Plus. The manager accused me of stealing money from the till, and I told him to fuck off.

"Fuck you!" he yelled back.

I went into a blind rage, punching him in the face and stomach. I kept yelling "What are you gonna do?"

There was nothing he could do: he only had one arm."

Walter Benjamin & Naughty Nails at The National Gallery

From Walter Benjamin's "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction":

"The uniqueness of a work of art is inseparable from its being imbedded in the fabric of tradition. This tradition itself is thoroughly alive and extremely changeable. An ancient statue of Venus, for example, stood in a different traditional context with the Greeks, who made it an object of veneration, than with the clerics of the Middle Ages, who viewed it as an ominous idol. Both of them, however, were equally confronted with it's uniqueness, that is, its aura. Originally, the contextual integration of art in tradition found its expression in the cult. We know that the earliest works of art originated in the service of ritual -- first the magical, then the religious kind. It is significant that the existence of the work of art with reference to its aura is never entirely separated from its ritual function. In other words, the unique value of the "authentic" work of art has its basis in ritual, the location of its original use value."

I spent the day first at the National Museum of Women in the Arts, debating the very raison d'etre of such a thing with my dear friend Matt Ambrose, who put up with my ranting on about the cloying nature of "women's art" with admirable equinamity. Then, the National Gallery of Art, where I saw a gorgeous exhibit of platinum prints by Irving Penn and a roomful of phantasmagoric El Grecos, among other things, while listening to the "Naughty Nails" playlist in the iPod. I'm sure those of you who know how naughty Nails can be can probably imagine. I felt like a predator stalking my prey in the sculpture garden! It ruled.

Pictures later, I guess.

Plus, PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION; and very hot, humid weather, which, surprisingly, as long as the evil fucking sun is not pounding down upon me using all of it's powers of torturous, superheated brightness, is tolerable... perhaps even pleasant.

Less than a week before I leave the continent.

Albert Camus & Me

Albert's Camus' Notebooks, 1935-1951 is one of my favorite books, and in keeping with my most recent topic, is not only one of my favorite narratives, but definitely my favorite kind of narrative - a sort of accidental one. Page after page of disconnected little thoughts, observations, bits and little seeds of future essays and novels, political ruminations - just all these little pieces and parts - Camus' notebooks let you see something no other kind of more intentional narrative ever could, and what you see is a portrait of a deeply moral, humane, and gloriously soulful human being.

Camus wrote incredibly beautiful essays, too, but I've never really loved his novels, which feel too much like vehicles for intention; his characters too like ideas masquerading as people. The combination of his notebooks and novels reminds me of Walter Benjamin's notion that "truth is an intentionless state of being."

That said, I love Albert Camus, and not least for this quote:

"My chief occupation, despite appearances, has always been love.  I have a romantic soul, and have always had trouble interesting it in something else."

You and me both, Albert.

More Excerpts From Milan Kundera, Because It Frickin' Rules

From a conversation between two of the characters in Immortality:

The Argument: "...respect for tragedy is a lot more dangerous than the thoughtlessness of childish prattle. Do you realize what is the eternal precondition of tragedy? The existence of ideals that are considered more valuable than human life. And what is the precondition of wars? The same thing. They drive you to your death because presumably there is something greater than your life. War can only exist in a world of tragedy; from the beginning of history, man has only known a tragic world and has not been capable of stepping out of it. The age of tragedy can only be ended by a revolt of frivolity."

The Rebuttal: "If high culture is coming to an end, it is also the end of you and your paradoxical ideas, because paradox as such belongs to high culture, and not to childish prattle. You remind me of the young men who supported the the Nazis or communists not out of cowardice, but out of an excess of intelligence. For nothing requires a greater effort of thought than arguments to justify the rule of nonthought. I experienced it with my own eyes and ears after the war, when intellectuals and artists rushed like a herd of cattle into the Communist Party, which soon proceeded to liquidate them systematically and with great pleasure. You are doing the same. You are the brilliant ally of your own gravediggers."

Your thoughts?

Lovin' Me Some Milan Kundera

I read this:

"An obssessive desire for admiration is not only a weakness added on to the lyric poet's talent (as it might be regarded in, for example, a mathematician or an architect) but it is the distinctive mark of the lyric poet: for the poet is the one who offers the world his self-portrait in the hope that his face, projected onto the screen of his poetry, will be loved and worshipped."

...and suddenly, my college days, and my own personal Grand Unification of Everything theory, the Theory of Spectacular Aesthetic Failure, came back to me in an intoxicating rush. Whaddaya'll think? Yea, or nay on this assertion of the deeply shameful nature of the entire project? I'm asking.

In other news, I am dangerously close to exhausting the Kundera catalog. I hate it when that happens!

Excerpts from Camus's Notebook

The clouds thicken over the cloister and night gradually darkens the ledger stones bearing the moral virtues attributed to the dead. If someone here told me to write a book on morality, it would have a hundred pages and ninety-nine would be blank. On the last page, I should write: 'I recognize one duty, and that is to love.' And, as far as everything else is concerned, I say no. I say no with all my strength. The ledger stones tell me that this is useless, that life is 'col sol levante, col sol cadente.' But, I cannot see that my revolt loses by being useless, and I can feel what it gains.

***

Commit yourself completely. Then, show equal strength in accepting both yes and no.

***

An overwelming impulse to cast ourselves away and reject everything, to become nothing at all, utterly destroying what makes us what we are, offering the present only solitude and nothingness, and returning to the only platform where our destinies can suddenly be renewed. The temptation is a permanent one. Should we resist, or give way? Is it possible to live a monotonous, repetitive life, while perpetually haunted by the thought of a work to be created, or should we adjust our life to this work, follow the lightnening flash? It is my concern for beauty, for liberty, which causes me most anguish.

***

I ought not to have written: if the world were clear, art would not exist - but if the world seemed to me to have meaning, I should not write at all.

I Wonder...

Here's something that's been on my mind from Albert Camus:

"Brute physical desire is easy, but desire at the same time as affection calls for time. One has to travel through the whole land of love before finding the flame of desire. Is that why it's always so hard to desire what one loves?"

~Notebook V, p45

As much as I can't bear to read Sylvia Plath's journal for another moment, I love Albert Camus' Notebooks. I've never loved his novels as much, but his essays and Notebooks are so full of an idealism of the best kind: he allows things to be. I love this idea, but it worries me: what if it takes you too long to find the flame?

***

In other news, Tara is a brilliant photographer, and she's taken a beautiful picture of my my son in flight.

Excerpts: The Pleasure of the Text

The text you write must prove to me that it desires me. This proof exists: it is writing.
...
The pleasure of the text is that moment when my body pursues its own ideas - for my body does not have the same ideas I do.
...
Pleasure can be expressed in words, bliss cannot... Bliss is unspeakable, interdicted.
...
Can it be that pleasure makes us objective?

~Roland Barthes