whathellohwell

I already had a thought on what to write but it slipped my mind. The thread that I could spin to one worthy blog post has eluded me but that doesn't really stop me from typing on, does it? I could write on and on about how I lost it and that would be enough to be called a post. But I won't. I am aiming for brevity in my writing now so this paragraph should be enough for that. A sentence should be enough, really - I'm working on that.


I read a story by Haruki Murakami entitled "Chance Traveler" from his anthology "Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman."

Read: http://www.network54.com/Forum/15537/message/1145831605/CHANCE+TRAVELER+-+By+Haruki+Murakami

Finished? I'm really just pointing out the poignancy of coincidences. How chances seem one in a million when, in reality (or the lack of it), everything that happens to us are based on chance. Choosing latte over cappuccino doesn't seem like chance really, especially when you had it in your mind to order latte. But is it really not chance? Was there not a chance to order cappuccino instead? Now I'm probably opening a can of worms about free will, and autonomy, destiny, and what ever else, but let's not go into those.

Chance is something that happens regularly but if it seems too good to be true, then it becomes a coincidence. Rather, if it becomes too "chanceful," it must be the universe's doing. How convenient is that! Coincidence - a grander term for everyday happenings brought about by unusual circumstances and unlikely connections. And then there's the self-proclaimed extraordinariness which we indulge ourselves in during these times. How mighty of ye, universe, to indulge us with your workings and set us above everyone else at this split-second yet opportune moment. Wake up. We are not the centers of the universe. You are not the center of the universe, relative to everyone else. We don't even know the center of the universe. And can the universe really concoct these "chances" to make your life a little bit more interesting? The universe has not been proven to be finite and there's certainly a lot out there more interesting than the musings of one puny little human being.

Okay, cynicism is stopping now. I love my life.

Damn pompous authors and their hurdles of worthiness!

So I'm reading Cold Mountain right now, and it took me at least sixty pages before finally enjoying the narrative. What's up with the first sixty pages being all vague and boring and path unmaking?

Apparently, there are authors who put these "roadblocks" in their books to funnel out the worthy audience with which they bestow upon their brilliance. Persistent readers get something out of this too, even if they are unworthy. What do I think of this? I think it's both a marvelous and egotistic practice. Authors, we've already bought your book so whether you like it or not you've already profited from us. The least you could do is to entertain us and provide means to the escape we are looking for! There is no need to challenge us and walk the way of the ninja just to epiphanize whatever it is we get at the end of the story. I'm not sure if that word exists, though.

There are books where these so-called hurdles are scattered about. Take Haruki Murakami as an example. I love this guy but he can sure be eloquent (read The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, case in point) - though not as eloquent as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. If you've read 100 Years of Solitude then you know what I mean. It took me ages to get through that book.

Given these, we all know anyway why they still do it. It's because it works. It really does. Murakami works (I love him, remember?). 100 Years of Solitude worked. That was awesome - well worth the read. Hurdles are only one of the many ways of looking at this. Sure, they are hurdles, but they're also part of the plot. Even though it might seem like it's not, I believe that it is.

Even when the cat walking in the street does not seem to make the plot move any faster, it might. Even if the sexual encounters seem to be added just for the juice of it (no pun intended of course I know you know), I believe it explains a bit of the nuances and symbolism that the author does not wish you to perceive so easily. We don't really know what goes on inside the author's mind as they write and we can only rely upon these manuscripts and take their word for it.

I really curse them, albeit jokingly, especially when I come across one of these obstacles and work my way through it and then realize at the end that it was all worth it (kinda like a rap, no?), it makes victory all that much sweeter. Yeah, then I can just imagine them, glass of whiskey in hand, doing their evil and condescending laugh, and that I-told-you-so look as the camera pans out until I see just a speck of that light reflecting in the damned glass.

Another example is The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. Now that, you will have some struggling to do.

Yes, the authors of these books are still pompous but they're awesomely pompous. They're not doing it just to step on everybody and write just to rake in cash. I know that they're all doing it for the love of fiction. They wouldn't have put that much effort in challenging readers if they did.

So what is the point of this? Hard work pays. We humans love hardships and sacrifice. If physical manifestations of these did not make us bleed, I'm sure we'd do that too. Pain makes victory that much sweeter because we have something to gloat about. Something to tell other people how much we have grown and how much the better we are now. How much the better we are than them. Yeah. Pompous. We are all pompous, authors and readers alike.

Anyway, enough with the cynicism. I have imbibed in myself the mantra of eliminating bad energy. Yeah, that new-year-resolution kind of thing. More like bucket list thing.

I love books.