||[Dec. 31st, 2002|03:27 am]
Today saw me at work nigh until 1:00am. It's not as heroic as all that, though. On the way out the door, I found a package waiting for me. A book, to be precise. "The Continent of Lies", by James Morrow. It's his first book, now out of print, and the last remaining work of his I'd yet to read. So naturally I read it. All of it. It's interesting, because the novel is (among other things) about a psychotropic fruit that offers the ultimate form of escapism, and I was reading the novel to escape from impending deadlines. Only after finishing it was I able to concentrate on my ever loving design document, which still requires a LOT of attention. But let's not think of that. Let's dwell for a tad bit longer in the The Continent of Lies:|
"I smiled at her. She smiled back. I hoped she somehow realized that I smiled not to be polite, not to express cheer, but simply because she was so painfully pretty."
"'Needle in a haystack,' he mumbled wearily. 'No, worse than that. I could find a needle in a haystack. Burn the haystack, that's all. Sift the ashes with a magnet.'"
"Neither of us felt much grief, of course, and pity was not a good word for our mood, either. What we really felt was a kind of bemused fatalism, a kind of 'Oh yes, and then there's Death.' Bad Old Death. Death, who will employ without prejudice any of a hundred modes, from lingering and expected to quick and surprising."
"I find the technical ingenuity wonderful, miraculous, thrilling, essential, aesthetic, erotic, fun. But when a machine turns against you, when it makes you tell lies, you have to be grown up enough, and awake enough, to get rid of it."