thanklessly

Finally finished The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James, which I’ve been sitting on for the last week. And what do I get for ploughing through all of that intense characterization and careless wit? A haphazard, slightly unoriginal plot twist (almost an afterthought!) and, yes, that’s right, an OPEN ENDING.

I abhor open endings. Grr.

In the book’s defence – it’s a good example of the transitional period between Victorian and modernist ideas, values, language and style; Isabel Archer is a literary heroine I identified with quite strongly, and finally, it did manage to make me cry.

Think I’ll take a break from fiction for a while.

—

Sometimes, there are things, there are people, there are places that you feel like you understand better than anyone else. The entire world thinks you’re thoroughly stupid for even undertaking to care about any of the above, but you still continue to do so, because even though you’re doing a thankless thing – like defending a genre, tolerating a partial friend and going somewhere you’d rather not go – you just go on doing it. It doesn’t cost you much, but it doesn’t give you anything either. And yet, you continue doing it, smiling at the pointlessness of the act, but smiling all the same.

Maybe someday you’ll regret it.

But future regret is better than present discomfort, arguably.

the chasm

I can only live a life of extremes.

For the past four odd days, this has been an extreme of indolence: I’ve slept for over twelve hours a day, watched movies, read books, drunk numerous cups of tea and coffee and glasses of beer and wine; eaten chocolate covered cookies, the best banana chips in the world, my mother’s cooking and had meaninglessly entertaining phone conversations. I don’t even feel guilty or troubled at the lack of excitement.

In comparison to other phases in my life, this is one that’s comparatively more satisfying and self-sufficient than all the others. Should I pat myself on the back? Probably not, and this post is getting progressively more pointless and self-indulgent.

The level of self-absorption I possess is simply alarming, at times. I keep attempting to reform myself, to actually listen to what people are saying instead of trusting to luck that my response will be in keeping with the conversation in progress; but it doesn’t seem to work. At some point, I’m sure, people are going to tire of it.

Even now, I’m wondering if I’m more like Emma Woodhouse, Marianne Dashwood or Elizabeth Bennet?

In vain have I struggled, it will not do. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.

Yet again, Mr. Darcy. I’ve spent all of today, one of my many summer holiday Mondays, lounging around at home  and watching the TV series ‘Lost in Austen’ – the latest addition to the cult of P & P. And yes, it contains yet another feisty, erudite heroine in search of love and yet another smouldering, to-die-for Mr Darcy who simply stares and glares his way into her affections (and mine). There’s just something about men in breeches and waistcoats and high neckpoints that simply takes one’s breath away. And no wonder, I suppose, when what we’re sentenced to is often immature, idiotic and clad in dirty jeans and t-shirts. 

Of course, it was fictional wish fulfilment that made the series so enjoyable. I mean, what woman in the mould of the aforementioned title character would not want to be suddenly thrust into the 19th century, with the promise of Darcy, no less? 

I did a bit of googling while I sat here drinking my tea; unsurprisingly enough, there are a considerable number of Darcy-bashers (not too many though, maybe one for every five adoring fans).  Apparently, the twenty first century woman would rather be with an enlightened, sensitive man whose penchant for equality would preclude any chivalrous impulses he might have. Darcy is now identified as being repressed, domineering and entirely undesirable. 

But I suppose it might be interesting to delve into why women still cling to the Darcyesque Byronic hero type, whose veneer of cynical detachment is a masque par excellence, and one that only the right woman can see through and gently peek behind.  Personally speaking, I’m a feminist. I believe in equality. But as far as chivalry or compassion go, I’m still very much aware that I’m a woman, and I still want to be taken care of. I’d never win the award for being Miss Independent, but neither would I want to be characterised as one of those prissy, simpering women who need men like a fish needs water.  

Darcy seems to fill that in-between space: he’s neither overtly concerned, nor is he an advocate of free love and casual sex. And of course, any relationship involves a certain amount of power play, though in a typically 21st century manner of being politically correct, we’d rather not admit it. Darcy’s attractive precisely because he’s so politically incorrect: he would automatically assume the role of the dominant, superior partner in a relationship, as a matter of principle.

This 21st century penchant for the middle-ground, for tolerance, for an everything-goes sort of attitude towards life is just disconcerting. Where do you find yourself, how do you define yourself, and what do you categorise as important in a world that isn’t willing to commit to definitions or categorisation? But I think, in the race to be politically correct and to foreground our acceptance of differences, we’ve begun to glorify insubordination to such an extent that it has become the new norm. Rebellion isn’t just taken into one’s stride anymore, it’s expected.

Which is why, I suppose, a character like Fitzwilliam Darcy still resonates. In a world where everything seems to be falling apart, and the only principles are those that you coin in order to suit yourself and your goals, he represents constancy, value, respect, integrity and intelligence. And without those, what is love or life?

hesaid/shesaid

The thoughts come too quickly. They could each spawn a novel in their own right and I can’t catch them all before they run away. Each sentence is too beautiful to throw away and yet when I sit down to write the words–that have bubbled to the surface shimmering in the light—disappear again.

I want to give it all away, she thought. Every joy, every sorrow, every fear never articulated and growing ever more monstrous in the mind; every fleeting moment of happiness that seems dangerously close to consuming everything, everything in its transience…but not. Give it all to someone else to live, so I will not have to live anymore. I can watch her struggle, smile, laugh, and cry and think – I will know her every thought and desire – but I will not bear the burden of being her.

The sentences still come, thrusting themselves against all logic of construction, all linearity of plot. Fully formed. Keep typing; for you never know when the words will run dry and the well of thought empty itself from too much use.

—

“I mean what I say”, he said.

“I don’t know what I mean”, she said.

I close my eyes and cannot see your face anymore. In a moment, you can betray. In a moment, you can tear hopes to shreds, throw away the future, rip someone’s memories to shreds.

In a moment, you took my words away.

“You’re too good for me”, he said, penitently.

(I don’t want you anymore, he said, desperately)

“Let me be the judge of that”, she said, hesitantly.

(I still love you, she said, desperately)

“I know I still want you”, he said, cunningly.

“I need time to think”, she said, confusedly.

“You’re the only girl I’ve ever truly loved”, he said.

(You’re the only girl who’s made me feel inadequate, he said)

“You make me feel like I’ve never felt before”, she said.

(I don’t know if I love you, she said)

“I never want to lose you”, he said.

(I’ll stay with you as long as I can stand it, he said)

where is the love?

A very run-of-the-mill couple of days. College, home, birthdays, shopping, tv and conversations. Nothing much has changed, since the last week. Or the last month. Does there have to be drama in order to make life worth living? There’s absolutely nothing I can possibly obsess over but that appears to be a problem rather than something to rejoice over.

Hence, I came up with the utterly stupid idea of being set up with someone. Just to combat boredom. Apparently, this is not a good enough reason to find a boyfriend. But I simply can’t bear the thought of emotional commitment, a semi-serious relationship (how serious can anything at this point be anyway?) etcetera. But on the other hand, I don’t want to turn into one of those callous, i’m-only-in-it-for-the-sex (haha, if anything!) types. Lol, as usual, the dilemma is everything.

Maybe the best solution would be to stick to my fictional men. No reality = no messiness.

Snippets:

- I wrote a 1500 word assignment on a book that I didn’t finish reading. Needless to say, I quoted extensively and made up a lot of nonsensical ideas.

- I almost burst into tears this evening when I found myself at a tiny handicrafts exhibition with no money. Not that any of the stuff on display was particularly fetching; I just felt horrible about not buying anything from the earnest salesman who assured me that he and his fellows were going through a very bad patch because of the recession :(

- Never, ever go to the Dhabba buffet on a Saturday. Pradipti and I did, and ended up fighting off great dirty men for space to sit and a chance to grab some of the food before it all disappeared. I was never more disgusted with the race of men than when I saw a pile of at least thirty odd naans disappear about three feet in front of me… all because I didn’t want to get into a fistfight for them. Hmph.

- Minus 1 is, contrary to expectation, MUCH nicer than Star Rock. A little more expensive, but they played better music than at nearly all the clubs I’ve been to in this city.

- Saw the Ex on Sterling Road, looking as supremely blond as can be expected. And, wonder of wonders, ran into the Ex’s blond dad the next day, outside Dhabba. Luckily, no awkward situations occurred with either since in situation 1) I was inside a car with tinted windows and in situation 2) the man was engrossed in a nasal conversation with another North Indian and anyway, I hardly think he’d recognise a girl whom he’s seen in his house a total of twice.

Oh the excitement of my life. I’m almost ready to escape from it.