Why a little Self-Knowledge is a Bad Thing #67
Last night I was discussing with a friend the real and urgent desire I have to be able to fall back into a routine, to lose the sense of disconnection, of aimless drifting that is beleaguering me... yet knowing that Back is somewhere I actually don't want to go... for There Be Dragons. So actually, what I'm yearning for is a New routine, a Future...
He said that he was looking forward to the day I was able to sharpen my snark and lose the endless angst.
And yet, we're not there yet - the angst is still my constant companion, still my only friend, still whispering in my ear at my lowest of ebbs. And so, gentle reader, I must beg for your patience a little longer...
For some reason best known to that part of my mind which has a tendency toward self-abuse, I have started re-reading The Scarlet Letter*. Thankfully the part of my mind that craves literary analysis managed to win the mental arm wrestle, and I got side-tracked into reading the Introduction, and then got side-tracked further into congratulating myself over being the type of person whose first reaction to the name 'Salem' is 'Arthur Miller' rather than 'Sabrina' or 'DOOL'... because I really am that pretentious. Or rather, the steam in my extremely hot bath (like headache creating hot (that self-abuse streak is pretty strong, obvs)) can make me that pretentious....
or not, as the case may be...
You see, I was reminded of this capacity for toe-curling pretension the other day as I was driving with a friend (another one!) to Canberra with the Big Girls to see the Turner to Monet exhibition ( Miss H's birthday present (oh crap! Just realised that I'm grooming the girls to be even worse than me...)). We were having one of those wandering-all-over-the-place conversations that happened stop momentarily on the subject of Robert Lowell. Not sure why... Oh yes! I've just remembered how that hideous man elbowed his way into our conversation... We drove past a Boarding Kennel/ Pet Cemetery (hee!) = Evelyn Waugh's 'The Loved One' = TS Eliot 'The Wasteland' = Robert Lowell. And the following exchange ensued:
Jude: Do you still hate him Actonb?
Me: Yep.
Jude: Why?
Me: Cos he's an insufferably wanky American Wanker.
Jude: Oh. So you've not mellowed any since Year 12 then...
Me: Nah.
Jude: Can you explain why you don't like him?
Me: Apart from the fact that he was an insufferably wanky American Wanker with massive entitlement issues and an inability to remove his own wanky and entitled voice from his poems?
*beat*
Nope.
Jude: Ahhh... Yes. Quite. Remember what you said to me when we walked out of the English (Related) HSC exam?
Me: Nope.
Jude: I asked if you'd answered the 'gimme', the easiest question on the paper, even though it was a Lowell question... when the Keats alternative was the HARDEST question on the paper...
Me: yeah.... and....?
Jude: You answered 'I wouldn't prostitute myself by writing about Lowell'.
Me: Dear Lord, what a pretentious git I was/am.
Jude: Er... yes... this is something we know.
I also remember my English teacher rushing up to me, pleading that I hadn't answered the Jane Eyre question, seeing as we hadn't actually studied it... and me having to admit that I had vaguely considered it.
Sheesh! I am a literary LOSER.
*some of you will nod knowingly, some of you will raise your eyebrows, most of you won't care, but all of you will be wrong.
He said that he was looking forward to the day I was able to sharpen my snark and lose the endless angst.
And yet, we're not there yet - the angst is still my constant companion, still my only friend, still whispering in my ear at my lowest of ebbs. And so, gentle reader, I must beg for your patience a little longer...
For some reason best known to that part of my mind which has a tendency toward self-abuse, I have started re-reading The Scarlet Letter*. Thankfully the part of my mind that craves literary analysis managed to win the mental arm wrestle, and I got side-tracked into reading the Introduction, and then got side-tracked further into congratulating myself over being the type of person whose first reaction to the name 'Salem' is 'Arthur Miller' rather than 'Sabrina' or 'DOOL'... because I really am that pretentious. Or rather, the steam in my extremely hot bath (like headache creating hot (that self-abuse streak is pretty strong, obvs)) can make me that pretentious....
or not, as the case may be...
You see, I was reminded of this capacity for toe-curling pretension the other day as I was driving with a friend (another one!) to Canberra with the Big Girls to see the Turner to Monet exhibition ( Miss H's birthday present (oh crap! Just realised that I'm grooming the girls to be even worse than me...)). We were having one of those wandering-all-over-the-place conversations that happened stop momentarily on the subject of Robert Lowell. Not sure why... Oh yes! I've just remembered how that hideous man elbowed his way into our conversation... We drove past a Boarding Kennel/ Pet Cemetery (hee!) = Evelyn Waugh's 'The Loved One' = TS Eliot 'The Wasteland' = Robert Lowell. And the following exchange ensued:
Jude: Do you still hate him Actonb?
Me: Yep.
Jude: Why?
Me: Cos he's an insufferably wanky American Wanker.
Jude: Oh. So you've not mellowed any since Year 12 then...
Me: Nah.
Jude: Can you explain why you don't like him?
Me: Apart from the fact that he was an insufferably wanky American Wanker with massive entitlement issues and an inability to remove his own wanky and entitled voice from his poems?
*beat*
Nope.
Jude: Ahhh... Yes. Quite. Remember what you said to me when we walked out of the English (Related) HSC exam?
Me: Nope.
Jude: I asked if you'd answered the 'gimme', the easiest question on the paper, even though it was a Lowell question... when the Keats alternative was the HARDEST question on the paper...
Me: yeah.... and....?
Jude: You answered 'I wouldn't prostitute myself by writing about Lowell'.
Me: Dear Lord, what a pretentious git I was/am.
Jude: Er... yes... this is something we know.
I also remember my English teacher rushing up to me, pleading that I hadn't answered the Jane Eyre question, seeing as we hadn't actually studied it... and me having to admit that I had vaguely considered it.
Sheesh! I am a literary LOSER.
*some of you will nod knowingly, some of you will raise your eyebrows, most of you won't care, but all of you will be wrong.
posted by actonb at 9:52 am
6 Comments:
and then got side-tracked further into congratulating myself over being the type of person whose first reaction to the name 'Salem' is 'Arthur Miller' rather than 'Sabrina' or 'DOOL'... because I really am that pretentious
I really am that pretentious too, Actonb, and I can't even blame a hot bath.
I've also been known to hold forth in a lusty manner at dinner parties on the fascinating topic of Italian Rennaissance artistic patronage.
Sometimes I'm amazed I've lasted this long in the real world, really.
Ypu do have such a lovely way with words actonb. Sending good vibes your way.
Welcome back ActonB, I have missed you terribly.
Things could be worse. You could be someone who got about a quarter of the way through Wuthering Heights and gave up, after doing something rather similar with Moby Dick, and who has never read anything longer than Bleakhouse unless Lord of the Rings counts.
In other words, someone like me.
I aspire to knowing enough about literature to be even a little pretentious, but it may never happen.
GW, as discussed previously, there is a fine line between pretention and just knowing heaps of stuff. It's in working out how to walk that tightrope that the problem lies! Also... discussing artistic patronage in a lusty manner??? Have you considered applying for the position of the Caped Ukeleinator's Sidekick?
TC, The good vibes are mutual lovely lady... I'm missing you. I shall have to be a little proactive about this.
IS, yeah right.... I call Bullshit.
INC, Of course LotR counts! And it means that you have a capacity for turgid Elvish poetry too! Well Done you!. I can't stand Wuthering Heights tbh... but don't tell anyone, it'll be our guilty little secret...
If you have read the examples of my poetry that occasionally appear on my blog, I suspect that I am about to receive a letter from the Elves saying "this poetry does not suit our present needs please send it to the deepest part of the mines of Moria" or similar.
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