At the start and end of everyday. I could say during though my job is not at a table most the time. You’ll find me at a table thinking, discovering, catching up, snooping, trying to get people to like something, creating a digital self and impotently communicating with the people not at my table. I communicate with myself most the time, all the time in a delirium of bouncing whirling thoughts of the usual things such as dealing with the eternal problem of whys. Why haven’t I got a ‘proper’ job, as in a higher paid ‘respectable’ job. Why don’t I ever feel thirsty though always dehydrated. Why does electricity make stuff light up or why am I always tired. Why is my dirty coffee cup round and why am I always tired. Why despite the greatest togetherness of communications and knowledge does exploitation and persecution still exist. Why did my ideas and many rehearsals of becoming a real life Tom Cruise lead me to sit at this table. Despite eating greedily like a pig and exercising hard do I always look gaunt and ill. The only thing that makes me look healthy is a tan which I know is slowly making me look older. Why am I getting slower and achy despite drinking green tea. Why do I flip from one art to another trying to find an answer. I play and sing the guitar trying to be Bob Dylan. I write to be James Joyce. I take pictures to be William Klein. I even think about painting to be Edvard Munch though know I can’t paint, write, sing. Asking why will make me crazy, not asking why will make me crazy. Why after a time, after repetition, after a routine does everything become mundane. We always want what we don’t have and of course we don’t know what we’ve got till its gone just like a big yellow taxi. What makes something beautiful or moreover what makes us find such solace in it. Beauty is not fixed, its forever in a perpetual motion just like boredom. Beauty and boredom are one and all as opposites and intertwined in each other. Something is always not boring to some one, just as beauty diminishes becoming bland. You can only look at Monet or Bridget Bardot for so long. You’ll find me at a table bored certainly not beautiful. I’ll be searching for an honesty, honest in beauty for liberty of the mind and body. You’ll find me at a table just as i’ll find you at a table, working and wondering. Not daring to ask why too often. Forget it you don’t have time or energy. Go on distract yourself with working, marrying, children, providing until you sit another table.
‘The Kite Runner’ is a culturally rich emotive story, despite its weaknesses, has an important insight of an undiscovered perspective.
After reading classic literature by James Joyce or Guestve Flaubert, The Kite Runner had a lot to live up to. I found the book culturally and emotionally rich with reference to the troubled history of Afghanistan though found the prose a little matter of fact. Hosseini provides us with a very brutal heartfelt story though relies on great coincidence and symbolism to resolve the coward that the main character becomes at the beginning of the story.
The novel redeems itself with great descriptive prose towards the end though for me, the resounding meaning I take from this book is the horrific corruption and history or Afghanistan. The Kite Runner allows us an insight and emotive story of life in a place we actually know little about.
I chose this book as an introduction to the renowned complexities of James Joyce. I was surprised by how short these short stories were, sometimes a little over ten pages though this was not to its shortcomings.
I found that some of the stories based in Dublin, were so rich in prose that they need not continue further, the point was significantly made. Conversely, I found that some of the stories as the book develops became less interesting with slightly on going prose, though the final story ‘the dead’ redeemed any misgivings with wonderfully written sensitive writing that was evident in earlier stories.
After reading each story, I read a brief analysis to fully understand the subtle yet complex themes each event contained. It is true that paralysis and routine are reoccurring themes of the stories with often sensational epiphical moments that are so intelligently placed, further creates the rich context in which it was written.
Joyce is reluctant to offer metaphoric symbolism yet offers an equally encouraging use of descriptive psychological representative prose like that of Flaubert. This is unlike the recent books I have read, allowing the reader to think more freely into captured meaning. This is not to suggest that the stories aren’t symbolic of Dublin or of the human condition which resoundingly leave you feeling part of its being.
After reading ‘the dead’ it seemed as if the first story, ‘The Sisters’ suddenly became increasingly meaningful and nostalgic where as the initial first reading may leave some questioning.
In summary, Joyce’s Dubliners is a richly intelligent slice of life novel that embeds an unforgettable feeling of realism that leaves you all the better for it.
“When I began to write our story down, I thought I was writing a record of hate, but somehow the hate has got mislaid and all I know is that in spite of her mistakes and her unreliability, she was better than most. It’s just as well that one of us should believe in her: she never did in herself.”
― Graham Greene, The End of the Affair