things of little relevance

“What is [m]ajest[y], when stripped of its externals, but a jest?”

Today I made a pun on Emile with “a meal.” At least I thought it was clever.

I have a tendency to play matchmaker—”It’s the Jewish mother in me.” I abide by the belief that if person A likes me, and person B likes me, then A and B must like each other! After all, I am an acquired taste. Granted, love is not a mathematical equation, but it’s still nice to be able to point to a couple and say, “I created this.”

“It was late before we parted. I wanted to take him in to supper with Mme d’Épinay, but he declined; and whatever efforts I made at one time or another to persuade him to meet her, out of my usual desire to bring the people I love together…”
-Rousseau likes to play yente, Confessions

Curtis Sittenfeld likes to play yente.

This past week has been riddled with late nights at Butler. At least I’ve been coming home to this (love Thomas More, love de Tocqueville), this (also love food), and this (love dead white men)!

“You would like such and such values to be realized?—fine, but then you must also accept these others, for without them the former cannot exist. An exchange, and one in which something is gained and something is lost.”

– Franco Moretti on the Bildungsroman

Application extends beyond narrative.

(disregard the praire dress)

A drunk man accosted me on the subway tonight. Typically I ignore come-on’s from undesirables but the lack of progress with my Galileo paper put me in a mood.

Reeking of alcohol and hovering over me, a man in a green button-down repeatedly told me he would “rock my world” and then went on to enumerate the various ways he would do so. I kept reading. Then in the middle of Edith Wharton’s description of Henry Jame’s death—”So here it is at last, the distinguished thing!”— he took the book out of my hand and closed it. He lost my page.

I snapped at him, “I can’t take anyone who wears green on St. Patrick’s day seriously. Or anyone who celebrates this holiday.” He obviously did not expect to elicit such a vitriolic response and switched to a farther pole. With his body no longer dominating my visual field, I suddenly realized that I was surrounded by revelers in green. Right across from me sat a couple wearing ridiculous matching shamrock hats, a group of frat boy’s in green t-shirts were a few seats away. It was impossible to interpret their stares. Were they sorry about the sexual harassment? Angered by my sacrilegious derision of St. Patty’s Day? Or confused by my Little House on the Praire get-up?

I switched cars.

“He said that one could learn in a brothel that there is no difference between what costs money and what doesn’t. He masturbated in the marketplace, saying that he wished it were as easy to relieve hunger by rubbing his empty stomach.”
– Simon Critchley on Diogenes, Book of Dead Philosophers

In Modern Poetry last semester, I had a wonderful TA, Lytton Smith, who magically transformed my inane comments into insightful points. He also happens to be a talented poet and blogger! In addition to a really interesting critique on contemporary poetry reviews, he recently interviewed poet Michael Schiavo (no not that one) about the writing process, AMERICA, publishing and etc:

“You can’t be a whole person and not be influenced by what you love. That’s the whole point, learning from others, in life or in art, internalizing the lessons, making them your own. But that’s what America is also. It’s so many things, some disparate, some similar, simultaneously, it’s its own thing. The genius of America is the contradiction, as we know. A land that touts the liberty of all yet was built on slavery and the forced removal of native peoples. Strike-breakers. Beating civil rights marchers. Yet, again, America is never complete, and it never will be. It’s the striving for perfection, not the attainment, which puts our greatness in motion. It’s stupid to say, “I can use this but I can’t use that,” in your poems. It always has been but especially in 2009. I’m lucky to be part of a generation that doesn’t have to deal with avant-garde v. School of Quietude battles, whatever that shit means. Let’s take two poets close by on my book shelf: love Donald Justice, love Kenneth Koch. I can take from everyone and make my own thing.”

part one and part deux

And a nice addendum.

After reading I am a… cabbie / JPMorgan analyst, normal responses range from “one is reminded that there are places to live that are not new york,” “yeah people are strange,” and “he got out of finance in time.” Compare those with my first reaction: “WHY WOULD YOU EVER DROP OUT OF A MEDIEVAL HISTORY PHD PROGRAM AT YALE?”

This reminds me of last week, when I unintentionally revealed that I read The Chronicle of Higher Education to two different professors. The first retorted, “Lucy, I’m a professor and I don’t even read the Chronicle. You are a übergeek.” Caveat: he is in a rock band. The second just looked at me wryly and chuckled. No caveat.