(a cura di Gabriella Maggio)

AGENTI DI BORSA: TUTTI LADRI
AGLIO : UCCIDE I VERMI INTESTINALI E PREPARA AI COMBATTIMENTI AMOROSI
AGRICOLTURA : MANCANO LE BRACCIA. BISOGNEREBBE INCORAGGIARLA. ARGOMENTO MOLTO CHIC DI CONVERSAZIONE
ALBUM : SUL TAVOLO DEL SALOTTO DEVE SEMPRE ESSERCENE UNO
AMBIZIONE: SEMPRE PRECEDUTA DA “ FOLLE”, QUANDO NON E’ NOBILE
ASPETTO: UN ASPETTO GRADEVOLE E’ IL PASSAPORTO PIU’ SICURO
CONCERTO: PASSATEMPO DI BUON GUSTO
CONCORRENZA : L’ANIMA DEL COMMERCIO
CONGRATULAZIONI: SEMPRE SINCERE, CALOROSE, VIVISSIME ETC.
CONVERSAZIONE: LA POLITICA E LA RELIGIONE NE VANNO ESCLUSE

Am de citit “Morometii” lui Preda, pentru ca nu i-am citit la timpul lor. Big mistake. Vedeti, eu cred intr-un timing al cartilor. Fiecare carte are anumite varste la care trebuie citita.  Iar eu acum nu pot citit Morometii. Mi se pare un mare bullshit. E penibil sa iei sa citesti o carte la o varsta la care nu mai crezi in ceea ce e scris. Ca si cum ar citi o persoana de 30 de ani, “Unde fugim de acasa” a lui Sorescu si ar incerca sa-i vada logica.

Sa mai mentionez de “Ion” pe care am abandonat-o pentru ca era o prostie? Asta e parerea mea, nu foarte stralucita, ce-i drept. Cu Maitreyi am fost inspirata. Am citit-o cand a trebuit pe la 15-16 ani. Nu mi-a placut dar am digerat-o. Dar acum serios, nu ca as mai relua-o dar iubirea pentru copac, sau scena aia cu gleznele picioarelor pff, bullshit. Literatura de scoala, must read-urile liceelor din ziua de azi, desigur dezaprobator interesant. Nu zic ca nu ar trebui sa citim si sa stim si noi “marile” noastre opere..dar timpurile se schimba, nu ar fi dragut sa mai schimbe si ei programa asta veche de cand lumea?

Am si eu carti din programa scolara pe care le ador. “Nunta in cer” de exemplu. Dar se pare ca exact asta eu nu o studiez, norocosi fie cei cu alt manual decat al meu.

Uitasem de “Baltagul”, o! Ce bucatica de Romanie traditionala, crima, nunta, botez, cainele detectiv, hamletul feminin, speare me. Daca si in liceu mai dai de Sadoveanu, ce sa mai zic. Ne invartim in aceeleasi opere literare. Eu una nu am facut la scoala Shakespeare, Neruda, Allan Poe, Flaubert etc..nu,nu noi ne pastram mintile pentru Sadoveanu si Slavici, doar de suntem patrioti.

Acum trebuie sa ma lupt cu Moromete, daca nu l-am citit atunci cand nu trebuia sa ma opresc dupa fiecare rand sa rad si sa critic ceea ce enunta.

From Flaubert’s Dictionary of Received Ideas:

“SEA: Bottomless. Symbol of infinity. Inspires deep thoughts. At the seaside one should always have a telescope. While contemplating the sea, always exclaim: “Water, water everywhere!”

One of my students is sort of an expert on French literature these days. Zola, Balzac, Flaubert. The whole thing  is rather impressive. She has been analyzing one particular scene in Madame Bovary for a while now, looking at how Flaubert uses the hotel room where Emma and Leon meet as a way to basically call Emma out on her affectations and pretensions. And pretty much insinuate that she is a stupid cow it appears.  We have had some laughs over the excerpt: “arrow-headed [curtain] rods,” “big balls [gleaming on the fender],” “big, pink” conch shells… And spent a good deal of time trying to come up with lots of synonyms for tawdry, cheap, and a general lack of sophistication, the premise being that the room in which Emma finds herself ensconced in the glory of romantic love is really just a cheap imitation of her ideals, and really rather poorly thrown together. I made my student laugh when I said I felt sorry for Emma because she reminded me of someone who goes to Vegas and says (in my best Britney drawl), “Oh my gaww! Lookit! It’s jus’ so beautiful! Lookit all how niiiiice it is!”

The room is described at once  as plain, frivolous, tranquil, passionate, delightful, intimate, faded, splendid. My student said thrown together. I said hodgepodge. She raised her eyebrow. I said, “It’s like a full-on Monet.” She said, “What?”

Emma Bovary has colored her expectations by her own illusions/delusions/desires (we are still debating whether or not Emma is stupid or delusional, or really, sort of typical in her fantasies – the debate seems to fall along an interesting age divide – she seems perfectly plausible to me as I compare her to a lot of people I know, not so to my seventeen year old counterpart who sees her an inept idiot.) Emma’s  perspective, based primarily on her adoration of what Geoffrey Wall calls sub-literary trash, seems so pathetically transparent when you look at it in the abstract. But she does not look at things in the abstract (due to inability or choice, I do not know) and so she colors entire chapters of her life with sweeping strokes of grandeur.

Emma sees connections, suggestions, and relationships between things that the audience, and certainly Flaubert, see as completely unrelated at best and in direct opposition to Emma’s reality at worst.

So, is this a lack of discernment or an astute ability to synthesize? This question has got me all perplexed.

Do I suffer from an inability to discern when, through the course of an hour lesson, I can call up images of Las Vegas, French literature, Alicia Silverstone in Clueless, impressionist art, Britney Spears, and the singular significance of a specifically placed comma? Or am I a master of synthesis? I can only hope that I am not contributing to the production of ’sub-literary trash’ (though I LOVE the label) but still I see such a need for abstract analogies sometimes that it makes me wonder. It is the age old quandary of the sum versus the total of the parts. I suppose one’s goal makes all the difference. For now, I think I am sticking with the hodgepodge effect. Realistically, I am not sure I could stop at this point.

Tai: Do you think she’s pretty?
Cher: No, she’s a full-on Monet.
Tai: What’s a monet?
Cher: It’s like a painting, see? From far away, it’s OK, but up close, it’s a big old mess. Let’s ask a guy. Christian, what do you think of Amber?
Christian: Hagsville.
Cher: See?

Marchand de prose.  Era assim que Guy de Maupassant, um dos maiores contistas da história da literatura, se definia. Um mercador de palavras.  Bola de Sebo, dele, entra numa lista curta dos melhores contos jamais escritos. O apogeu criativo de Maupassant se deu no final do século XIX, sob as asas de seu mestre,  Gustave Flaubert. A coisa mais sensata que você faria agora é interromper a leitura e sair atrás do livro de Maupassant em que aparece Bola de Sebo.

Mas, se você seguir adiante, não vou me queixar.

Mercador de prosa evoca, evidentemente, escritor barato, com uma diferença. Maupassant não era um mercador de prosa, ao passo que sou, na plenitude vazia da expressão, um escritor barato. Se um escavador de inutilidades encontrar, daqui a cem anos, algumas coisas escritas por mim, terá apenas o esboço do que foi a mente turbulenta de um integrante do clube dos corações solitários destes nossos tempos.

Maupassant não. Você o lê hoje e encontra em suas páginas o espírito melancólico de final de século em que ele criou suas histórias. Uma carta que ele mandou a Flaubert, aos 28 anos, me chama a atenção, e na verdade foi o que me trouxe ao laptop. “Comer mulheres e ouvir homens sabichões me provocam tédio”, escreveu ele. “Os jornais parecem trazer sempre as mesmas notícias e não encontro maneiras diferentes de escrever uma frase.”

Maupassant teria sido submetido a uma forte dose de antidepressivos se fosse ao consultório do Dr. Gattaz, não tenha dúvida.

Flaubert não ficou muito comovido. Sobre o tédio sexual, aconselhou o pupilo a praticar a abstinência até que o calor voltasse a seu coração e com ele o desejo. Sobre o papo furado, sugeriu que fechasse os ouvidos. Sobre os jornais, que simplesmente parasse de lê-los. E sobre as frases, que procurasse com afinco que encontraria o que queria. “Talento é uma grande paciência”, dizia Flaubert, autor do clássico A Educação Sentimental, um romancista soberbo que reescrevia obsessivamente seus textos, lapidava o que já cintilava. (A Educação Sentimental é o romance predileto de um dos maiores escritores contemporâneos, Vargas Llosa, o peruano de quem todo mundo devia ler ao menos Travessuras da Menina Má.)

Tédio, voltando a Maupassant, ao “comer uma mulher”? Bocejos ao — onde estará nosso Cafa Homem?, o cafajeste definitivo da era moderna — “finalizar” fêmeas parisienses, elas que são mestras na arte do amor? Que o palavrório cansativo de homens pedantes cause sonolência, entendo, até porque sinto o mesmo. Mas manchar a honra das admiráveis parisienses numa prática que elas dominam como ninguém, isso é insuportável para mim. Flaubert, em vez de sair em defesa das belles, mandou o discípulo ficar longe delas.

Maupassant, o marchand de prose, é grande nas letras, e Flaubert um gigante cuja cabeça rompe os céus.

Mas são um antiexemplo no sexo. Prefiro ao tédio de um e ao remédio de outro a franqueza tosca do Cafa Homem, o cafajeste orgulhoso que defendeu aqui no blogue suas idéias machistas na maior cara de pau, ele que achava bonito dizer que um dos prazeres da vida é “finalizar” uma mulher.

Aqui a história começa, pois só a partir daqui Ema realmente se torna personagem. Ela se casa com Carlos, que é médico, e vai morar com ele. Ele era casado com uma viúva cheia de defeitos que acabou morrendo e livrando o caminho dele pra se casar de novo. Assim que entra na casa, Ema toma conta do ambiente rapidamente redecorando tudinho.

BLONDES. Hotter than brunettes. (See BRUNETTES.)

BREAD. No one knows what filth goes into it.

BRUNETTES. Hotter than blondes. (See BLONDES.)

CELEBRITIES. Concern yourself about the least details of their private lives, so that you can run them down.

COMPROMISE. Always recommend it, even when the alternatives are irreconcilable.

CONCERT. Respectable way to kill time.

CONTRALTO. Meaning unknown.

CONVERSATION. Politics and religion must be kept out of it.

COOKING. In restaurants, always bad for the system; at home, always wholesome; in the South, too much spice, or oil.

CROSSBOW. The ideal occasion to bring up the story of William Tell.

EXERCISE. Prevents all diseases. Recommend it at all times.

GUERRILLA. Does more harm to the enemy than the regular forces.

ORIGINAL. Make fun of everything that is original, hate it, beat it down, annihilate it if you can.

RAILWAY STATIONS. Gape with admiration; cite them as architectural wonders.

STOCKBROKERS. All thieves.

STOCKEXCHANGE. “Barometer of public opinion.”

TEETH. Are spoiled by cider, tobacco, sweets, ices and drinking immediately after hot soup.

TOYS. Should always be scientific.

by Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880)

Okkio, ke alla campagna bisogna esserci abituati, ke se no tradisci,vai in rovina, ti uccidi e muore anke tuo marito

Daca nu te lasi descurajat de eruditia extrema a bibliofilului Eco si nu te lasi coplesit de multitudinea de amanunte strict tehnice ale cercetarii asupra unui carturar vechi, Abatele Migne, despre care Eco afirma ca : “nu era numai un geniu al organizarii editoriale si al finantelor, ci si un exploatator al fortei de munca intelectuale .[...] Cine stie ce-ar fi ajuns daca, in loc sa faca trafic de texte sacre si pergamente vetuste, ar fi avut posibilitatea sa lucreze cu lanturi de televiziune si cu retele de internet”; daca ai rabdare sa vezi cam in ce consta munca de informare selectie si achizitie a unui bibliofil de mare forta fie si asupra unui singur titlu “Amphitheatrum Sapientiae Aeternae” de Heinrich Khunrath, editia Hanau, 1609, titlu aparut in nenumarate variante si descris amanuntit de-a lungul a 30 de pagini, mergi mai departe. Are Teofil dreptate. Sigur ca in aceasta carte sunt destule lucruri mult peste puterile si interesul unui cititor oarecare, oricit de impatimit ar fi. Dar, cum ziceam, mergi mai departe. Si afli ca : “Daca citesti cataloagele descoperi prezente neasteptate, numai sa ai rabdare sa le destelenesti din acele sectiuni pe care librarii le numesc “Varia et Curiosa”. Se pot descoperi carti cu titluri care sa ne faca sa visam si noi pe toate an vrea sa le avem; dar sunt foarte multe si achizitia lor l-ar ruina si pe cel mai bogat dintre colectionari”. Se indoieste cineva ? Eu, NU. Numai ca in aceasta sectiune “Varia et Curiosa” gasesti mai cu seama inventatori de limbi universale – Eco a demonstrat in cartea sa “In cautarea limbii perfecte” (printre altele) aceasta imposibilitate – ,noi Mesia, inventatori de perpetuum mobile, cercetatori ai cvadraturii cercului, … etcetera. Carti pe care un bibliofil le poate rivni dar un cititor obisnuit, nu prea cred.      Dintre acestea, Eco se ocupa (printre altele) de o teorie a pamintului gol in interior care a circulat (si) in cercurile naziste. “De fapt – spune Eco – exista doua teorii despre pamintul gol in in terior. Conform primei teorii, noi traim pe scoarta, dar in interior exista o alta lume, necunoscuta noua, in care s-ar afla o misterioasa imparatie Agartha, salasul Imparatului Lumii. [... ] Conform celeilalte teorii, noi credem doar ca traim pe scoarta externa, in vreme ce de fapt, traim in interior ( adica ni se pare ca traim pe o suprafata convexa, in vreme ce traim, de fapt, pe o suprafata concava)”. BIZARERII. O foarte interesanta ierarhizare face Eco autorilor. Autori ai Primei Dimensiuni sunt cei a caror opera ramine in manuscris. A Doua Dimensiune este reprezentata de autorii publicati la edituri consacrate.  A Treia Dimensiune ar fi reprezentata de autorii de succes, iar A Patra Dimensiune apartine autorilor care-si publica opera pe banii lor (tema exploatata copios in Pendulul lui Foucault). Multi dintre autorii din cea de a patra dimensiune au ramas anonimi. Dar sunt si dintre aceia care au ajuns sa fie tradusi si in alte limbi. De ex. Carlo Cetti cu romanul “Logodnicii” tradus si publicat de Alexandru Balaci la ed. Minerva in 1971; despre acest roman, traducatorul prezentei carti a lui Eco, doamna Anamaria Gebaila considera ca ar fi primul roman italian. Mai scrie Umberto Eco : “Cea de a Patra Dimensiune este vasta. orice se poate naste din ea”. Si exemplifica generos de la filosofi si poeti pina la petitionari catre orice For Mondial. Ca slava Domnului, e plina lumea de ticniti. Pardon. De neintelesi. Desigur ca exista si polul opus. “Poate oi fi eu greu de cap, dar nu reusesc sa pricep cum de un domn este in stare sa consume 30 de pagini pentru a descrie cum se foieste el in pat inainte sa adoarma”. Cu aceste cuvinte, fusese respins initial “In cautarea timpului pierdut” de Proust. “Nu credem ca poate sa aiba succes pe piata literaturii pentru copii. Este lung, cu un stil invechit, si ni se pare ca nu merita reputatia de care pare sa se bucure”. Cu aceste cuvinte fusese respins “Moby Dick” in 1851 in Anglia. “Domnule, v-ati ingropat romanul sub o gramada de detalii bine conturate, dar inutile”- este atentionat Flaubert in legatura cu “Doamna Bovary”. Si lista continua cu James Joyce (Dedalus), Faulkner (Sanctuar), Wells (Masina timpului). Si altii. Despre Walt Withman un critic al vremii scrie : “Withman are aceeasi legatura cu arta ca un porc cu matematica”. Despre Bach, alr ‘specialist’ spune : “Compozitiile lui J.S.Bach sint cu totul lipsite de frumusete, de armonie si mai ales de limpezime’. Exemple mai sunt in cartea lui Eco. Chiar si artistii se exprima unii despre altii. Ceaikovski despre Brahms : “Am studiat indelung muzica acestui sarlatan. E un nenorocit lipsit de calitati”.

 Mai este ceva de spus ? Probabil ar trebui spus ca limitele competentei fiecaruia dintre noi sunt prea inguste ca sa ne poata cuprinde orgoliul. Zimbim vazind greselile facute de altii dar nu mai zimbim deloc atunci cind ni se spune noua ca gresim. Dar gresim ?

You know, Dave, I was just about to ask you if you had seen the last episode of Mad Men, yet — which I think is the — gulp — penultimate of the season? If you have, then we have a heck of a lot to discuss good golly!

In the interim, there’s always Glee.

Anyway, I was reading Flaubert’s correspondence recently — bits and pieces, natch — and it really humbled and almost shamed me.  You remember those wild times when e-mail was just starting out and we had that kind of clubby student interface at the old school?  And then I started getting four to six e-mails a day from my mother?  And we all kind of thought that was really weird.  I mean, not as weird as some people thought I was, but still…

Well, reading the letters Flaubert wrote to his mother from Egypt, it appears that I should have been both more appreciative and more assiduous in my replies all this time… I mean, not only did she write him constantly, constantly complaining that he did not write back often enough, but he actually seemed to take pleasure in reading her letters!  Sentimentally setting aside all other task to open himself to the wellspring of emotions brought about by the words of his chère vieille (seriously, I cannot imagine addressing my mama with some variation of “you old bag”). Moreover, he took to writing to his comrades requesting that they check in on her.  Times change… Anyhoo, it really brought me back to those moments when I would have to lie about where I was traveling, just to avoid any excess of fretting: Flaubert’s mother apparently imagined that he was eaten by crocodiles or, perhaps, besieged by Bedouins as every week went by without word from him.  Of course, in other respects, I have never been expected to give the kind of detailed report on my daily health that Flaubert felt necessary — Dude, TMI!

Otherwise, I was wondering why I always have a rough time leaving the house in the morning.  Then I realized that there is an inverse relationship between distance between sleeping cats and hours it takes to get out the door in the morning:

let sleeping cats lie

Really… could you bring yourself to abandon such a thing?

While I’m here, not reading Flaubert… and after leaving you in the lurch yesterday, I thought I might take on the task of starting us off with some questions today — saving, of course, your meditations on Betty Draper and Pixie Princesses for a broader Mad Men discussion…

First off, what do you make of this?  Having maintained a blissful contrarianism by being the only person I know who doesn’t even pretend to listen to NPR, I had no idea that there was a controversy brewing over the extent to which the things that NPR listeners think is cool actually suck.  Yet, this seems rather like a parody of a conversation you’d have with that guy you live with:

NPR is fond of rockers like Living Colour (R), BLK JKS (F)—black performers with the good sense to embrace a musical style associated with whites. (The 1970s power-trio Death qualifies for an improbable [D,O,R] on account of the untimely demise of two of its members.) NPR is fascinated by black musicians with sensational human-interest back stories and physical handicaps, like “Song of the Day” honorees Staff Benda Bilili (F), “a group of paraplegic street musicians who entertain from their base near the … zoological gardens” in Kinshasa, Congo.

However, this makes me feel even better about all those conversations I wasn’t able to have with my co-workers in DC.

Yesterday, you brought up the question of talking about staying fit.  Another scourge of Facebook is cuisine posts: status updates that either discuss a recent culinary experience in a restaurant that is out of most people’s price ranges or, more frequently, about what that person has just cooked.  This is often aggravated by the inclusion of photos of said dish.

Now, we both like to spend a fair amount of time in the kitchen — so what should be considered acceptable guidelines for discussing things culinary?

Finally, what’s up with Andy Capp?  Is the woman being sarcastic here?  Because it seem to me that the whole reason James Bond has never settled down is because he really would be like Andy Capp once all hitched up.