Smoke and mirrors
I have been talking to a friend recently. Who makes me think. And who knows how to apply ROI estimates to life. For those of us of a less managerial disposition, that’s Return On Investment. Well, I’m sorry to say but I see less and less reason to read fiction. In fact, I pick a book, look at it, read the blurb. Cringe. Poke it at the beginning. Get mildly excited. Check it in the middle. Sigh. Read the ending. Put the book back. Rinse my mind. Grab another book. Look at the cover. Shudder. Put the creature back. Rinse my mind. Brace myself for another book. Yeah. You’ve got the picture. The older I get, the faster I am able to say NO to the time wasters.
Ironically, I would much rather invest my time in reading honest trash then go for yet another pseudo literary pearl. The type that is set to fcuk (a great shop, btw) my mind and patience on a pretext of being deeply philosophical and mysterious. Too psychological for a mere mortal. Too elitist. If you can follow the discourse all the way through to the part where you die of sheer boredom, surely you are the chosen one.
Which book am I refering to? The End of Mr Y. Not to worry. It’s got excellent reviews. Mostly. Not written by me of course. For I am NOT the chosen one. I don’t have anything against Scarlett Thomas. I mean, good for her! She’s obviously doing very well for herself and her family. The problem that I have is purely with her writing, I just can’t stop feeling that she’s got nothing to say. Zilch. Nada. Zero. And the entire book is there a) to make her money (again, good for her); and b) to impress me with the vastness and superiority of her intellect. All Hail Caesar. Morituri te salutant. And all that. Which has no ROI for me. And such a waste of my time. Which I can spend elsewhere. Doing fun things.
I mean, the story is dreadfully simple. A girl wants to get laid. Desperately. Having given up any hope of getting laid with a real guy, she focuses her attention on 19th century writer. Please. Don’t. Ask. Why. She obtains a book written by him. Yeah. It is a very rare book. The cursed book, of course. The one that can materialize the said writer. Otherwise, how can she get laid? So, she gets him. She does get laid. The end. Sounds familiar? Mills and Boon, perchance? But nooooo. Let’s add Troposphere. Let’s add quantum physics. Let’s add metaphysics to her sex life. Let’s unleash it all. In a narrative. And mention Einstein, and Darwin, and Lamarck a few times. And a few mathematical paradoxes. To show the erudition. After all, this is NOT M&B literature. Which one to pick? Hmmm. Oh yes. Schrödinger’s cat. Now let’s make it all as random as possible. And totally unrelated to the plot. That will surely impress the living daylights out of readers. And reviewers; especially, the reviewers. I mean, it’s soooo innovative, isn’t it?! They won’t forget it in a hurry. Not with all that information shoveled in.
Yeah. I won’t be soon forgetting it. I actually do feel like that poor cat at this stage. Neither dead nor alive. But perpetually bored.
Sharing or Staring?
I’d be the last one to admit to having any voyeuristic tendencies. But despite the common knowledge on how curiosity killed the cat, I guess I just can’t help myself. I love books. I love browsing for books. Buying books is a different matter all together, as it can get out of control. Because I read very fast.
I’m also very curious about books others are reading. When I was little, I used to walk straight to other people’s bookshelves and just stare at books. I could do it for hours. (My mum banned me from touching the books, as it was ‘low class’ when on a social visit. ) As far as my home library went, I could tell you the precise location of each book that we had. And yes, I have read them all 😉 .
Guess what? Now I can do the staring online. You create your own bookcase, upload a photo of it, and tag the book titles. And then you share it, so that others can then stare at your books. And of course, you can stare back at theirs. You can also add your profile, and discuss books, or whatever. Maybe, it will become a hobbyist form of facebook. Or not.
Whichever way, the idea sounds quite interesting. They claim to be cheaper than Amazon, but then I prefer using Play.com. Don’t think I’ll be buying books from there. Still, it sounds like a good place to make friends, or just indulge in an unhealthy dose of staring.
About
I’ve finally come to conclusion that writing a blog is not such a bad idea. In fact, it’s a great idea for people who do not like sharing personal stuff with those nearest and dearest. After all, the need to talk and get it off the chest is still there. I guess, I see blogging in the same way as talking to a stranger on the train. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. Things can never get awkward between us. I can be as stupid or as clever, as interesting or as boring as I choose to. And you can choose to ignore my ramblings. Free will at its best…
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High Fidelity 