It’s been a painfully slow week. Well, the weekends have gone by quickly – too quickly, to be honest – but the days are dragging on. Maybe it’s a side effect of this frigid (ok, by mid-Atlantic standards) weather…
The irony, of course, is that as I sit in my toasty room, I’ve become too lethargic to really write, or to think about something novel (yes, pun intended) to write about. I’m also painstakingly working my way through reading several books, some of which are closer to being finished than others. It’s at times like these where the next best thing I can do is pull something from my archives, and in this case I’m going to post a short paper I wrote a couple of years ago about fiction and Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. There’s no food this time around, but there is, as Woolf does best, some beautiful prose and intricate structure in her well-known argument for the social and economic advancement of Englishwomen in her time.
Since this post was once a paper, I apologize in advance for the formal tone – it’s not a very technical essay, but I think it’s a good one nevertheless. Hopefully you will, too.
I apologize for not posting anything new since last Wednesday, but between AMC’s “Godfather Weekend” marathon (during which I saw Part II twice because it’s that good) and other personal projects I’ve found it difficult to read and write a fresh post. That being said, one of these ‘projects’ was a painting I finished the other day, and its inspiration came in part from something I’ve talked about before here. Here it is:
“En attendant Godot.” Acrylic on canvas, 5″ x 7″. Copyright 2013 Chris Chan. All rights reserved.
Yep – this painting was inspired by Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, and it was my attempt to evoke the play’s minimalistic scenery. To be honest, though, I didn’t feel confident in including any of the characters!
Obviously it is hardly a well-executed painting, but I hope you’ll find it enjoyable. Let me know what you think in the comments, and stay tuned for a more ‘literary’ post next time!
The man…the myth…the legend. Image source: Wikimedia Commons.
Disclaimer: This is not a post about boudin noir – though I can tell you that I’d very much like to eat some – nor is it about Bourdain being black, or a black Bourdain, or…well, it was just a terrible pun, you know, a stupid play on words to grab your attention about the thing that I’m trying to –
The hell with it: let’s talk about Anthony Bourdain.
Like many other people, I suspect, I only knew about Martin Luther King, Jr. through four terms: civil rights; “I Have A Dream;” his assassination; and the holiday that bears his name. His legacy remains immense in the American consciousness, almost certainly via some combination of these factors.
Last year, though, as our family prepared to move into our current house, I stumbled upon a book that the previous owners had left behind. I kept it on my shelf for several months, only picking it up seriously just a week or so ago – and finishing it earlier today.
Now I think it’s time to write something about it.
In this edition of Bookmarks: inauthentic narratives, “branchy towers,” book-length dreams, indecipherable words, and a favorite city – and book – that will never get old.