Just a Gwai Lo fun within prescribed limits [?]

Brad Leithauser: “[Halldór] Laxness, who won the Nobel Prize in 1955, often disconcerted his countrymen by the harshness with which he portrayed them in their struggles, and ''Iceland's Bell'' may well offer his bleakest depiction of his homeland. Iceland at the time of the novel is essentially a place administered by crooks -- the colonial Danish masters who monopolize its trade and plunder its few resources -- and populated by a drunken, despairing, loafish lot only fitfully energized by the pleasure of watching some act of public cruelty. More than any other novel I know, ''Iceland's Bell'' recreates a world where Pieter Bruegel would have felt right at home, not merely in its fascination with bumblers (petty thieves, purblind watchmen) and grotesques (faceless lepers, hanging corpses), but also in its unearthly ability to find beauty in a landscape of destitution, wisdom in a congress of fools.”

I've been reading Independent People by Halldór Laxness lately, and have stopped halfway to start reading another book. Leithauser wrote the introduction to Independent People (I don't read introductions of books written by someone other than the author of the book until after reading the book), but makes no mention of that in the article above.

There are two lengthy quotes of Independent People so far on my weblog: one about the tyranny of men and another about Asta Sollilja's awe for her father Bjartur. The book was a gift from the Icelandic branch of my family, and has sit unread until now. I'm setting it aside like I set Soul Mountain by Gao Xingjian aside, but just like Soul Mountain, because reading half of a book is a solemn promise to finishing it, I shall return to it too.

An inexhaustive list of the good and the overrated.

Best Blogger: if you have a weblog, and you kept it updated throughout 2003, you are the blogger of the year. Seriously. This is still early days for blogging, and even if you started in 2003, you were doing what most people never heard of. It takes a lot of time and effort and, yes, courage, to do it consistently. Even if all you did was link to those stupid online quizzes, at least you put something out there.

Best Weblog: Yours. See above.

Best Album: this is the not unexpected choice—Dizzee Rascal's Boy In Da Corner was the album that changed the game. I stand by my prediction that heads ain't ready when it drops in the United States. Runner-up was Basement Jaxx's Kish Kash (they're the Timbaland of house; perhaps strangely, I didn't like the Dizzee Rascal track all that much). As for the albums I can't claim to have purchased (yet: seriously, RIAA, I'm gonna buy them, I swear!), the highlights were Prefuse 73's One Word Extinguisher (it took me a while to enjoy it, but it grew on me), The Postal Service's Give Up and Pete Rock's Lost & Found Hip Hop Underground Soul Classics (the beats are consistently good throughout, but still don't come close to "Take Your Time" from his 1998 album Soul Survivor). Christmas present album of the year is Icelandic hiphop group Forgotten Lore's Týndi Hlekkurinn, which also wins for creepiest use of a George W. Bush quote. (Thanks go out to my cousin Katrín.) Overrated was Outkast's Speakerboxxx/ The Love Below. That said, they're still the most innovative group in hiphop these days, Dizzee Rascal excepted.

Best Book: I didn't read a whole lot of books published in 2003—I'm two thirds the way through the excellent Empire: The Rise and Demise of the British World Order and the Lessons for Global Power by Niall Ferguson (the illustrations and emphasis on primary sources are worth the price of admission)—but the best book that I read during the year was far and away Soul Mountain by Gao Xingjian. Like how Dizzee Rascal changed how I listened to hiphop, Gao changed the way I read novels. There are quotes from it here, here and here. Of course, the quality of a translated book is, for those who don't read the language in which a novel was originally published, directly related to the quality of the translation. That choice may surprise those who think that I should have chosen What Our Mothers Didn't Tell Us: Why Happiness Eludes the Modern Woman by Danielle Crittenden [references] but, quite frankly, I got tired of repeating myself. So Soul Mountain it is. Overrated was Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom by Cory Doctorow.

Best Movie: American Splendor. I identified strongly with the Harvey Pekar of the first half of the movie, if not so much the second half. (Sometimes the best movies are the ones that tell something about us, whether to ourselves or to others.) I loved the what I call Harvey Pekar Moments, such as when Pekar is sitting in a diner waiting for his wife to return, and a thought bubble appears overhead saying “I'm desperately lonely and horny as hell.” [more here] Bend It Like Beckham was formulaic, but that doesn't mean it sucked. Indeed, it was rather funny. The movie-not-released-in-2003 that I enjoyed the most was Adaptation. It helps to have seen Being John Malkovich beforehand, but it's not required.

Article of the Year: far and away it was "Caring for Your Introvert" by Jonathan Rauch [my self-identification]. It's required reading for anybody seeking to understand the way and how I relate with people. Coming in a distant second was "Modern Flirting: Girls Find Old Ways Did Have Their Charms" by Laura Sessions Stepp, which, as I said, is like reading a certain book but condensed into 5 pages. Another quote appears here.

"Don't think about anything else while you're dancing." You have just met her, and are dancing together for the first time when she says this to you.
"What do you mean?" you ask.
"When you're dancing just dance, don't put on an act of being lost in thought."
You laugh.
"Be a bit more earnest, put your arms around me."
"All right," you say.
She giggles.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Can't you hold me tighter?"
"Of course."
You hold her tight and become aware of the springiness of her breasts and the fragrant warmth of her next from her open-neck top. The room is dark, the table lamp in the corer has been covered with an open black umbrella and the faces of the couples dancing are indistinct. The tape recorder is playing soft music.
"This is good," she says quietly.
Your breathing blows the soft strands of hair brushing against your cheek.
"You're lovely," you say.
"What are you saying?"
"I like you but this is not love."
"It's better that way, love is stressful and worrisome."
You say you feel the same way.

—Gao Xingjian, Soul Mountain, pp. 371-2.

I'm really liking this book. Another quote, p. 391:

What about the drawer?
He goes through that. He seems to recall opening the drawer. He used to have a habit of putting the key in the right-hand corder of the drawer but stopped doing that a long time ago. The drawer is full of letters, manuscripts, bicycle licence plates, medical cards, gas supply cards, and all sorts of bills. There are also some commemorative badges, a gold pen box, a Mongolian knife and a small cloisonné sword. None of these are worth anything but its a pity to throw them out because they hold a few memories.
Everyone has memories they treasure.
Not all memories are worth treasuring.
Yes.
Losing them is a form of liberation. [...]

[...] I am suddenly surrounded by an expanse of passions and think that the human search for love must originally have been like this. So-called civilization in later ages separated sexual impulse from love and created the concepts of status, wealth, religion, ethics and cultural responsibility. Such is the stupidity of human beings.

Night grows palpably thick, the sound of the drums ceases, and the black surface of the river is dotted with the lights of the boats. I suddenly hear someone call out in Chinese, "older brother", and the voice seems to be right near me. I turn and see four or five girls on the slope all singing to me. One again calls out in a clear voice "older brother". At this point, I realize this is probably all the Chinese she knows but it would be enough to seek love. I see her expectant eyes in the darkness, unblinking and fixed on me. My heart starts pounding and I seem to return to the long-lost trembling of my passionate youth. I am drawn to her, perhaps affect by the actions of the young men here, perhaps because of the darkness. I see her lips moving slightly although she doesn't speak again and just waits, and the singing of her companions grows soft. She is still a child, her face hasn't lost that childish look – the high forehead, upturned nose, small mouth. If I give the slightest sign I know she will come away with me, snuggle up and, all excited, put up her parasol. But this tension is unbearable. I quickly smile, no doubt very awkwardly, resolutely shake my head, then turn and walk away, not daring to look back.

I never encountered this style of love. It's what I dream about but when it actually happens I can't cope.

—Gao Xingjian, Soul Mountain, pp. 228-9.

[...] She says she's not a child and doesn't want to listen to some children's story, she just wants to live an honest live, she won't believe in love anymore, she's sick of it, all men are the same and all just want sex. What about women, you ask. They are just as immoral, she says, she says she's seen enough of everything, life is sickening, she doesn't want so much suffering, she just wants a moment's happiness. She says do I want her?

Right here in the rain and mud?

Won't it be more exciting?

You say she's a slut. She says don't men like it like that? It's simple, no stress, and exciting. When it's finished, you walk off and that's it, there's nothing to worry about and there are no complications. You ask how many men she has slept with. She says at least a hundred. You don't believe her.

What's there to believe or not to believe? It's really quite simple, sometimes it only takes a few minutes.

In a lift?

Why in a lift? You've been watching Western movies. Under trees, against walls, anywhere.

With total strangers?

That's even better, then you don't feel awkward when you bump into one another again.

You ask if she does this regularly.

Whenever the urge comes.

What if you can't find a man?

They're not hard to find, you only have to signal with your eyes and they come.

You say if she signals with her eyes, you wouldn't necessarily come.
She says you might necessarily dare, but there are plenty who do. Isn't this what all men want?

Then you are toying with men.

Why are only men allowed to toy with women? What's so strange about this?

You say she may as well say she is toying with herself.

And why not?

In this mud!

She starts giggling and says she likes you but it is not love. And she says you should be careful, if she were to really fall in love with you ...

It would be a disaster.

She asks, a disaster for you or for her?

You say, a disaster for you and for her.

—Gao Xingjian, Soul Mountain, pp. 195-6. Another excerpt tomorrow.