Without Lifting A Finger

The Google Map below is an attempt at explaining why a Southern Michigander might not ever go through Niles, MI. Certainly I've traveled the 94 corridor from Jackson to Lake Michigan to Chicago many times, but I can't remember ever needing to go south on Highway 31 toward Niles. Nor have I ever needed to take the 12 that far west. 

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner (March 6, 1885 – September 25, 1933) was an American sports columnist and short story writer best known for his satirical takes on the sports world, marriage , and the theatre . Writing Career In 1913, Lardner provided lyrics for "That Old Quartet" for composer Nathaniel D. Mann . In 1916, Lardner published his first successful book, You Know Me Al , an epistolary novel written in the form of letters by "Jack Keefe", a bush-league baseball player, to a friend back home. The letters made heavy use of the fictional author's idiosyncratic vernacular . It had initially been published as six separate but interrelated short stories in The Saturday Evening Post , leading some to classify the book as a collection of stories; others, as a novel . Like most of Lardner's stories, You Know Me Al employed satire , in this case to show the stupidity and avarice of a certain type of athlete. "Ring Lardner thought of himself as pr

Football in Niles, Michigan about 1900 , a photo by Laxlon on Flickr. I'll have to take his (i.e., Laxlon's) word for it, i.e., that's Lardner on the left and Uncle Bounce on the right. A friend gave me a book of Lardner's short stories and I was impressed by the fact that he hails from Niles (I'm originally from Jackson). Never been to Niles, but I've seen the sign--how many times--and now maybe I'll have a reason to go.

Eureka! It was an easy find because the passage is near the beginning. Here goes:      In his search for a commode to store his belongings Hugh Person, a tidy man, noticed that the middle drawer of an old desk relegated to a dark corner of the room, and supporting there a bulbless and shadeless lamp resembling the carcass of a broken umbrella, had not been reinserted properly by the lodger or servant (actually neither) who had been the last to check if it was empty (nobody had). My good Hugh tried to woggle it in; at first it refused to budge; then, in response to the antagony of a chance tug (which could not help profiting from the cumulative energy of several jogs) it shot out and spilled a pencil. This he briefly considered before putting it back.      It was not a hexagonal beauty of Virginia juniper or African cedar, with the maker's name imprinted in silver foil, but a very plain, round, technically faceless old pencil of cheap pine, dyed a dingy lilac. It had been mis

Pninism: "I search, John, for the viscous and sawdust" = I search, Joan, for the whiskey(s) and soda" * The pencil figures hugely in Invitation to a Beheading and, though foggy from distance, there's a wonderfully magic passage in Transparent Things re this writing implement (I believe, along with the index card, it was Nabokov's weapon of choice). Anyway, here's a third paean to the pencil in Pnin: With the help of the janitor he screwed onto the side of the desk a pencil sharpener -- that highly satisfying, highly philosophical implement that goes ticonderoga-ticon-deroga, feeding on the yellow finish and sweet wood, and ends up in a kind of soundlessly spinning ethereal void as we all must.

          Started re-reading Nabokov's Pnin .     A few early underscores:   languid Eileen Lane, whom somebody had told that by the time one had mastered the Russian alphabet one could practically read "Anna Karamazov" in the original A race was run between the doctor's fat golden watch and Timofey's pulse (an easy winner) his greatest course (with an enrollment of twelve, none even remotely apostolic) The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense "I must warn: will have all my teeth pulled out. It is a repulsive operation" Pninizing his new quarters It surprised him to realize how fond he had been of his teeth. His tongue, a fat sleek seal, used to flop and slide so happily among the familiar rocks 

Resting Racquetball , a photo by Imagine24 on Flickr. I'm learning. It's a healthy addiction.

Finished with Invitation to a Beheading and I have to admit (though my "underscores" point to flashes of N's usual brilliance): I was a bit disappointed with the master. I kept thinking Early and Nabokov practicing Nabokov , but I know (because I've looked) that others think this one is chock-full of ideas (something N usually pooh-poohed) and heavy (light) stuff. I'll only say: Let me revisit it in a couple years. First readings are sometimes "first readings," and, admittedly, I've had some "life-objects" in my way. Let me also point you to two interesting essays I've unearthed (unfortunately I haven't the time to read them in toto): The Informing of the Soul by Gennady Barabtarlo Nabokov's Invitation to Plato's Beheading by Alexander Moudrov

A few more "underscores" from Nabokov's Invitation to a Beheading : Accused of the most terrible crimes, gnostical turpitude Again a butterfly wing would slide between his fingers, leaving colored powder on them the bliss of relieving oneself, which some hold to be on a par with the pleasure of love Around his left nipple there was an imaginative tattoo--two green leaves--so that the nipple itself seemed to be a rosebud (made of marchpane and candied angelica) flashed by so quickly as happens only amid very familiar surroundings, in the dark, when the varicolored fractions of day are replaced by the integers of night

These photos are from my wife's BlackBerry. I didn't see a thing, though I felt the effect long after the event, i.e. heavy traffic in downtown Long Beach. I think the claim exaggerated, but a few people down at Chronic Tacos (near the Belmont Pier) claimed around the pier and/or on the beach it was as busy as the 4th of July.                               

One of the few novels by Nabokov I haven't already read, and it took me a while to get started (ever since a friend's reading it inspired me to read it, it has been patiently waiting for me on the "list"). I picked it up before Stiller (got through the intro in which Nabokov denies Kafka's influence; made a couple false assaults on the text), but finally Stiller won out. Anyway, now I'm up for it (already 20% through a relatively short text: 180 pgs), and a somewhat lackluster beginning (or was it only me?) has been followed by a carriage of words that has steadily pulled me in and along. Perhaps the first underscore worth repeating: . . . but here is what I want to express: between his movement and the movement of the laggard shadow--that second, that syncope--there is the rare kind of time in which I live--the pause, the hiatus, when the heart is like a feather . . .

Seems like I brought this up last year, so this post will be a little more subdued. Also, it's jumping the gun a bit, but birthdays are always "right around the corner." Sept. 24th: F. Scott's and mine. Sept. 26th: T. S. Eliot's *** Found a quote by T. S. Eliot that might almost fit: "The years between fifty and seventy are the hardest. You are always being asked to do things, and yet you are not decrepit enough to turn them down." ~ T. S. Eliot *** 

Ferme vaudoise , a photo by Diegojack on Flickr. Almost finished with Stiller . I know: slow-going, but it's because of LIFE. Kept reading about "ferme vaudoise" (I got the Vaud part, but wasn't sure about the "ferme," which equals "farm"). Of course Frisch has to throw in Montreux and Lake Geneva and (just to fill me with Wanderlust). So "ferme vaudoise" = a farm in the Vaud (Switzerland).

I love autumn, I love September. But when will the heat let up? * To Stiller : a labour of Sisyphus In face of the fact of life and death there is nothing whatever to be said A shivering child, who is coughing very ominously, as though anxious to join the dead, is allowed to sample the sweetmeats already, although the food still belongs to the dead We then discussed the well known line: Him I love who craves the impossible At times I have the feeling that one emerges from what has been written as a snake emerges from its skin We possess language in order to become mute difficult to carry a knowledge that can never be proved nor even uttered I worked for a month in Detroit; I fell in love with the daughter of a Conservative senator, who had a Cadillac, and we swam in Lake Michigan either we smash ourselves to pieces on one another, or we love one another

After all it is the Age of Machines. Why shouldn't Subfinder do battle with TomTom? These days (is it simply ironic or something more malignant) I hope TomTom wins. * Just a few closing bullets from Frisch's Stiller (yes, my reading has suffered, slowed, but I keep pecking away -- at what I'm uncertain -- pecking for pecking's sake): Anna Karenina Effi Briest Rodin's Thinker Orlando Furioso The 'ripping' restaurant proved to be an orgy of 'ye olde' Switzerland such as Stiller couldn't stand at any price two extensive menus printed in the style of the Gutenberg Bible Stiller looked at her like a dog that doesn't understand human speech, and Sibylle had half a mind to stroke him like a dog

Shadow of a Doubt (1943) - still , a photo by Advertising Hitchcock on Flickr. Jack: Well, it's not quite as bad as that, but sometimes it needs a lot of watching.

Hitchcock cameos, "Frenzy", 1972 , a photo by thefoxling on Flickr. Continuing to look for Waldo (I mean Hitchcock) and broaden my Hitchcock vocab. Saw his "Frenzy" last night (second time in two years). Loved the girl in a potato sack sequence.

Mouse trap 1 , a photo by D-W-J-S on Flickr. My wife made me do it and she wouldn't even look at the victim. And it wasn't even in the house. I had noticed it--running back and forth between garden and sandbags on our patio--several times. Once I told her about it the mouse idyll was over. Photo via Flickr and D-W-J-S.

Un problema con el 'rouge' , a photo by barvaron on Flickr. Watching Hitchcock's "Marnie" tonight.

I was watching Saboteur last night (Encore has a slew of Hitchcock's films up now) and wanted to know more about Soda City. Figured it wasn't real. It's not. Apparently it was shot somewhere in Nevada (makes sense). This site gives a nice run-down of the various places throughout the US that Hitchcock used in his films: Hitchcock's America.

Before I attend to a few images suggesting a poem, I'll jot down a few impressive (to me) bullets from Emily's Hundreds : Ghost flowers grow in the woods -- beauties. I shall take a big clump home. They are mystery flowers Yet, as I was mounting sketches today I felt so many shortcomings and I believe more and more that one's only real critic, the one that counts, is one's own soul The educated look for technique and pattern, colour quality, composition. Spirit touches them little and it's the only thing that counts It's my own awful longing to possess a dog and of course it's very real to me [ Emily is most certainly talking about artistic "possession"--nothing dark or perverted here ] She was really interested in my work. She said that it appealed to her like religion. Art and religion you can't separate, for real art is religion, a search for the beauty of God deep in all things living above paint, above colour, above design, even ab