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tarigwaemirBlair Hall Apts., on the Feast of St. Aristedes
Ate lunch with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tryogeru and then went to see the movie 2046, which had gorgeous cinematography, excellent acting, and interesting premise. I enjoyed it despite the nagging feeling that I didn't really understand it. Also, the pacing was molasses-slow, and while a part of me was in awe at watching, say, Tony Leung portray his heart breaking in the most subtle shifts in facial musculature, but alas, the part of me that got up at 5:30 this morning to go exercise in the park with my father didn't quite appreciate it so much. (Father and I've gone out exercising at ungodly hours of the morning before--a tradition left over from high school--but never as early as 5:30. My family's caught the Korean "well-being" health craze. Ugh.)
Tryo-chan and I walked the thirty blocks between Koreatown (near Herald Square) and the movie theater (near Lincoln Center). It was cathartic; I felt that everything that I'd missed about New York was somehow restored to me again. The sensation of walking along busy streets surrounded by endlessly tall skyscrapers, the very New York character of the buildings whether they be old or new, the certain knowledge that I was in a city again. It was sunny and hot and humid enough for the walk to be not quite comfortable, but I didn't regret it at all. Later, on my way home, I walked along the south edge of Central Park to get to the 59th and 5th subway station, the same route we used to take when we were coming home from that math course at Columbia, senior year in high school. Ah, nostalgia. I don't consider myself a writer, but I do wish that one day I'll find the words to describe the feeling of walking in Manhattan again, after nearly two years of living elsewhere. Or at least find a writer who's already done so.
The Book
He first read the book when he was thirteen. At first, it was only one volume in a pile borrowed from the library, second from the bottom, due in three weeks. He never remembered what it was that made him pick it up from the shelf, only that he had, for some unknown reason, found the title interesting. He did not come around to reading it until nearly the end of the first week, after he had already devoured half the stack.
He read it in a blur, a sort of dazed existence where interruptions like meals and baths and sleep seemed more unreal than the text on the pages. For years, he would recall the texture of the paper--thick, with rough-cut edges, and soft between his fingers--and the crackling sound of the laminated cover. He read it while sitting on the couch next to the window letting in the late afternoon light, while lying awake in bed in the early hours of the morning, while perched in the corner between his desk and dresser, while standing on a lurching bus on the way home from school. When he finished the book, he felt disoriented; for a long moment he could not close it but held it open at the last page, his head a-whirl. He wondered if he moved like a puppet--he felt as if he was relearning how to fit into his body--and examined his face in the mirror in case it had changed.
He never reread the book. It returned to the library with the rest of the pile. With time, he forgot the title, even the author. But it clung to his memories nonetheless--sometimes he would dream about a certain face, a face he was sure he had never seen before, but recognized as something imagined from a phrase of text: "her smooth chalk-dusted cheek" or "the swaggering curl of a black moustache". Sometimes he would be talking with a friend when a word occurred to him--"heinous"--and he would realize that he had never spoken that word out loud before until that moment, until after the book. The names of the characters faded, only an expression or an eye or a hanging sleeve remained. The story disappeared, only the scene on a deathbed or a line of dialogue stayed, haunting him at odd moments.
Six years later, he returned to the library and searched for the book, sure that he would recognize it immediately if he only saw it again. He knew it had a dark blue cover--or was it dark blue? Was it violet instead? He looked through the shelves, and then looked again, but he could not find it.
Oh, but even so, it changed his life. Was that not love?
END
An afterthought to the fic: I often make stupid attempts at being "symbolic" or whatnot, but this fic is utterly straightforward. That is, a description of my relationship to certain books in my life.
Yours &c.
Ate lunch with
tryogeru and then went to see the movie 2046, which had gorgeous cinematography, excellent acting, and interesting premise. I enjoyed it despite the nagging feeling that I didn't really understand it. Also, the pacing was molasses-slow, and while a part of me was in awe at watching, say, Tony Leung portray his heart breaking in the most subtle shifts in facial musculature, but alas, the part of me that got up at 5:30 this morning to go exercise in the park with my father didn't quite appreciate it so much. (Father and I've gone out exercising at ungodly hours of the morning before--a tradition left over from high school--but never as early as 5:30. My family's caught the Korean "well-being" health craze. Ugh.)Tryo-chan and I walked the thirty blocks between Koreatown (near Herald Square) and the movie theater (near Lincoln Center). It was cathartic; I felt that everything that I'd missed about New York was somehow restored to me again. The sensation of walking along busy streets surrounded by endlessly tall skyscrapers, the very New York character of the buildings whether they be old or new, the certain knowledge that I was in a city again. It was sunny and hot and humid enough for the walk to be not quite comfortable, but I didn't regret it at all. Later, on my way home, I walked along the south edge of Central Park to get to the 59th and 5th subway station, the same route we used to take when we were coming home from that math course at Columbia, senior year in high school. Ah, nostalgia. I don't consider myself a writer, but I do wish that one day I'll find the words to describe the feeling of walking in Manhattan again, after nearly two years of living elsewhere. Or at least find a writer who's already done so.
The Book
He first read the book when he was thirteen. At first, it was only one volume in a pile borrowed from the library, second from the bottom, due in three weeks. He never remembered what it was that made him pick it up from the shelf, only that he had, for some unknown reason, found the title interesting. He did not come around to reading it until nearly the end of the first week, after he had already devoured half the stack.
He read it in a blur, a sort of dazed existence where interruptions like meals and baths and sleep seemed more unreal than the text on the pages. For years, he would recall the texture of the paper--thick, with rough-cut edges, and soft between his fingers--and the crackling sound of the laminated cover. He read it while sitting on the couch next to the window letting in the late afternoon light, while lying awake in bed in the early hours of the morning, while perched in the corner between his desk and dresser, while standing on a lurching bus on the way home from school. When he finished the book, he felt disoriented; for a long moment he could not close it but held it open at the last page, his head a-whirl. He wondered if he moved like a puppet--he felt as if he was relearning how to fit into his body--and examined his face in the mirror in case it had changed.
He never reread the book. It returned to the library with the rest of the pile. With time, he forgot the title, even the author. But it clung to his memories nonetheless--sometimes he would dream about a certain face, a face he was sure he had never seen before, but recognized as something imagined from a phrase of text: "her smooth chalk-dusted cheek" or "the swaggering curl of a black moustache". Sometimes he would be talking with a friend when a word occurred to him--"heinous"--and he would realize that he had never spoken that word out loud before until that moment, until after the book. The names of the characters faded, only an expression or an eye or a hanging sleeve remained. The story disappeared, only the scene on a deathbed or a line of dialogue stayed, haunting him at odd moments.
Six years later, he returned to the library and searched for the book, sure that he would recognize it immediately if he only saw it again. He knew it had a dark blue cover--or was it dark blue? Was it violet instead? He looked through the shelves, and then looked again, but he could not find it.
Oh, but even so, it changed his life. Was that not love?
END
An afterthought to the fic: I often make stupid attempts at being "symbolic" or whatnot, but this fic is utterly straightforward. That is, a description of my relationship to certain books in my life.
Yours &c.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-01 02:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-01 02:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-01 02:51 am (UTC)I think you are a true writer, if you don't consider yourself one. Not just everyone has the gift of words that you do (unfortunately ;_;)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-01 02:58 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-02 08:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-02 08:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-03 08:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-01 03:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-01 03:52 am (UTC);_;
Oh, and you forgot to mention how bleeding hot it was during that walk to the station. Back. Soaked. ;_;
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-03 03:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-05 03:04 pm (UTC)Ok. So I forgot the name of the people, so here are the main characters:
1. Man who is the protagonist. I shall call him John.
2. Man who is his friend. I shall call him Michael.
3. Woman who is a puppeteer. I shall call her Jane.
So John and Michael live in one country, and John wants to go and marry the Princess of the next country because she is beautiful. Michael decides to go help him. They climb up the mountain, which is all snowy and dangerous, then I think they *sled* down the other side, landing on the doorstep of Jane. Jane's grandfather was a puppeteer and she wants to be one too, but her country doesn't let women be puppeteers. So, John decides to help her by going puppeteering with her and in return she helps them get to where the king lives. She falls in love with John (and gets knocked up, btw) They do puppet shows, always ending with some message to the king that John wants to fight for the hand of the princess (oh, 'cause the princess would not marry anyone so her father decreed that any knight is open to fight for her hand or something). This one (older) knight person takes interest in John and decides to help him train in fighting. Even though John is not a knight, they somehow convince the king he should be able to fight. And he does. And he wins. Yay. But then, right after the king grants him the throne, the Princess' jealous lover who wasn't highborn enough to fight, goes and stabs John. John dies, leaving Michael to take care of his child (w/ Jane) and possibly the throne. The End.
Now, I know if I ever find this book, it is probably going to be cheesy and probably not as good as I seem to remember it as, but I still really want to find it...
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-05 05:19 pm (UTC)A good site for finding a book that you remember the plot of is http://www.allreaders.com/. There you can search by setting, character attributes, type of book, etc and then appear a list of books that fit your critera with a brief summary of each book. Hopefully this will help!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-05 10:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-01 04:30 am (UTC)2. I work in a book store and this sort of things happens often. People will walk in and say things like, "I'm looking for a book. I think it's blue," or (even better), "I'm looking for a book by an author who writes a lot of books." (This has happened to me)
It's a lot less enchanting and moving in real life. But I still love your fic.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-01 04:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-01 09:57 am (UTC)I do wish that one day I'll find the words to describe the feeling of walking in Manhattan again, after nearly two years of living elsewhere.
Not quite the same, but a while back there was a wonderful Talk of the Town piece (http://www.newyorker.com/talk/content/?050103ta_talk_mcgrath) in the New Yorker about a guy who had made it his mission to walk every block of the city and record it. And here is New York Songlines (http://home.nyc.rr.com/jkn/nysonglines/).
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-02 08:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-02 04:46 am (UTC)