southern women wisdom

"some things you never outgrow, constance ann," [cindy] said. "it's like putting a quarter in one of those machines at the grocery store knowing full well that you don't want that rubber worm or plastic bracelet inside of it. but you do it. you do it every now and then; pay your money and take a chance just to feel that little plastic egg sitting there in your palm and remembering how you never got exactly what you wanted but you played with it anyway."

"no life is perfect," hannah told her. "if you are happy, then you've got more than a lot."

foreign policy from a foreign perspective

pankaj mishra, "where alaa al aswany is writing from." new york times magazine, 27 april 2008.

"really, americans need to keep more of a eye on what their government is doing in their name in places like egypt," [al aswany] said, "where it talks about democracy but supports dictatorships. the west is obsessed with terrorism, but if it supported democracy here, there would be no terrorism. they say, 'we want democracy in the middle east,' and then get scared when hamas or the muslim brotherhood wins. they don't understand that even if people in a democracy vote for the muslim brotherhood, they have the chance to see that these people in power are no good and then can vote them out. but if you have only dictatorship, there will be more terrorism."

i reminded him that this was the justification the bush administration used for the invasion of iraq. "ah, no," he retorted, "that was what we call 'moral cover.' in 1882 the british never said, 'we are going to occupy egypt and take its resources.' they said, 'we are here to protect the minorities.' you must cover your imperialism with something beautiful. no, what we want is to be left alone to build our own democracy. it is american support that maintains people like mubarak in power."

out with the old, in with the new

from new york times article, "lost in the new beijing: the old neighborhood" (27 July 2008) by nicolai ouroussoff:

it is a familiar pattern in american cities. the sad truth, as any architectural historian knows, is that poverty is often good for preservation; poor people lack the resources to tear down and rebuild houses every generation. once an affluent homeowner moves into a faded landmark, the first thing he or she does is bring in an army of restorers - or bulldozers. preservationists, who tend to have limited economic clout, strike a faustian bargain: better to save the basic architecture and let others worry about what goes on inside. breaking the pattern without aggressive government intervention seems almost impossible.

hi stranger

at mudie's corner in oxford street all the red and blue beads had run together on the string. the motor omnibuses were locked. mr. spalding going to the city looked at mr. charles budgeon bound for shepherd's bush. the proximity of the omnibuses gave the outside passengers an opportunity to stare into each other's faces. yet few took advantage of it. each had his own business to think of. each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title, james spalding, or charles budgeon, and the passengers going the opposite way could read nothing at all - save 'a man with the red moustache,' 'a young man in grey smoking a pipe.'

her head against a pillar

"somehow it seems to matter."

silver words

talking, talking, talking - as if everything could be talked - the soul itself slipped through the lips in thin silver disks which dissolve in young men's minds like silver, like moonlight. oh, far away they'd remember it, and deep in dullness gaze back on it, and come to refresh themselves again.

virginia woolf

i came across an excellent book sale last week and grabbed jacob’s room by virginia woolf for five bucks. i sort of have an obsession with her, the oppression she dealt with supposedly being homosexual, having some sort of mental illness (dementia, hearing voices), but still seeing the political oppression of being a woman in the victorian age. she was brilliant in her own strange, almost avant garde, way. i’ve read mrs. dalloway three times in college, the first two times for a paper and the third time for another class. by then, i really didn’t need to read the book again, but i did as i saw it as an opportunity to indulge myself. it’s weird to think that i used to read so much.

i actually didn’t care for mrs. dalloway the first time i read it. it’s just about this woman, clarissa dalloway, whose only concern was a party she was throwing. the story takes place in only one day. but in this one day, she comes to an epiphany. another character had been a soldier who suffers from post trauma stress disorder. even though they don’t know each other in the story, they are basically two sides of the same coin. only after reading it again did i begin to grasp the beauty of the book, and even at that time, i could barely articulate why i loved it so much. what i’ve come to conclude is that even though clarissa dalloway seemed so shallow with her only concern about a party, she was a lovely person, worrying about how people would get along. also, it was the style of writing, stream of conciousness, that i fell in love with.

so we’ll see how i feel about jacob’s room. here’s the first excerpt that jumped out at me:

“who...” said the lady, meeting her son; but as there was a great crowd on the platform and jacob had already gone, she did not finish her sentence. as this was cambridge, as she was staying there for the week-end, as she saw nothing but young men all day long, in streets and round tables, this sight of her fellow-traveler was completely lost in her mind, as the crooked pin dropped by a child into the wishing-well twirls in the water and disappears for ever.