My latest source of inspiration.

My latest source of inspiration.

Antonio split the spines of books, spilling leaves of Austen and Cervantes, sheets from Leviticus and Judges, all mixing with the pages of The Book of Incandescent Light. Then Antonio unrolled the wrapping paper and construction paper and began to cut at the cardboard and then fold.

She was the first to be created: cardboard legs, cellophane appendix, and paper breasts. Created not from the rib of a man but from paper scraps. There was no all-powerful god who could part the rivers of Pison and Gihon, but instead a twice-retired old man with cuts across his fingers.

Antonio was passed out on the floor, flakes of paper stuck to the sweat of his face and arms, unable to hear the sound of expanding paper as she rose. His hands were bloody, pooling the ink of his body on the floor, staining his pants. She stepped over her creator, spreading his blood across the polished floor, and then walked out of the factory and into the storm. The print of her arms smeared; her soaked feet tattered as they scrapped against wet pavement and turned her toes to pulp.

— an excerpt from the prologue of The People of Paper by Salvador Plascencia.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter- tomorrow we will run faster, strech out our arms farther… And one fine morning-
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

These are the last sentences of The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I finished the novel yesterday.

One week ago I met George Whitman, founder of the Shakespeare & Company bookshop in Paris. He is 97 years old, and still as stubborn and flirtatious as ever. He instructed me to read at least one book a day while living in the shop, words of wisdom which I have failed at, dismally.

Today I begin Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino.



I finished Ulysses

…at 23h33, January 5th, 2011. 

Unite to give praise to Ulysses; those who will not, may content themselves with a place in the lower intellectual orders.

-Ezra Pound

All hail those of higher intellectual orders! Although Ulysses is only 3/4 the length of my other favourite novel, Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace, it took me twice as long to read. However, much like Infinite Jest, now that I am done I feel as though I have lost a good friend. I bought Ulysses the first month I arrived in Vancouver. Since then, I have moved across the world, and James Joyce with me every step. 

For those considering Ulysses, I strongly suggest purchasing the Oxford World’s Classics edition. It includes the book’s publication history, two different schemata for interpreting symbolism, a chronology of the author, explanatory notes, and even a map of old Dublin. Here is an author’s quote from the introduction, perfectly outlining Ulysses’ position in Modernist literature :

In realism you are down to facts on which the world is based: that sudden reality which smashes romanticism into a pulp. What makes most people’s lives unhappy is some disappointed romanticism, some unrealizable or misconceived ideal. In fact you may say that idealism is the ruin of man, and if we lived down to fact, as primitive man had to do, we would be better off. That is what we were made for. Nature is quite unromantic. It is we who put romance into her, which is false attitude, an egotism, absurd like all egotisms. In Ulysses I tried to keep close to fact.

And ‘close to fact’, it is. Ulysses' basic 'plot' (if you can call it that), is based on the quotidian goings-on in Dublin on June 16th, 1904. Nothing special happens. The true allure of Ulysses is its variety of literary devices. As Jeri Johnson summarizes with regards to the book’s initial criticism, “Ulysses looked like a novel, but it also looked like drama, or catechism, or poetry, or music depending on which page one happened to open.” With regards to this variety, Joyce said :

I’ve put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I mean, and that’s the only way of insuring one’s immortality.

James Joyce, immortal Dubliner, you have stolen my heart and scarred my soul.