Monday, November 19, 2007
I may be a little obsessed with Warbook. But not as obsessed as other people from my alliance. Hell, they're getting all excited about warring with another alliance and they cuss, scream, shout if their kingdoms get annihilated or if they manage to annihilate enemy kingdoms. People also think that I'm a guy because I picked 'Brianstorm' as my hero's name. Please. Brianstorm is an Artic Monkeys song. It's a very cool song and the guy - Brian Storm - whom they're singing about is also very cool. The name is very catchy too, like 'Justin Case', therefore I picked it. But anyway the people on Warbook go 'Hey, bro, it's you again' and I laugh like a loon because it is very funny, and you know it.
Anyway I am still very bored. I am even raiding my sister's bookcase. Of course I skipped over the Christianity faith books. But I read finish
Lolita in six hours yesterday and today I will read Neil Gaiman's
Smoke and Mirrors.Lolita is very pervertic and disgusting most of the time. But I love the language, the beginning. Here it is:
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue making a trip of three steps down the plate to tap, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.Did she have a precusor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.It ends like this:
I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.What Humbert Humbert (poet and pervert and narrator) means is, the only way future generations will remember us is through writing, a book. And of course, he hints that they're gonna die soon, which they do. Lolita dies on Xmas Day, in childbirth. HH dies in jail.
Whatever. I must restrain from analyzing the text. Literature is over.
Smoke and Mirrors now.
i thought the world of you
4:41 PM
