Fifty years ago today, Albert Camus was tooling around in a tiny little car, and then he died. I remember delving into Camus as an undergrad, but it wasn't until my mid-twenties that it started to make sense. Much of it still doesn't, which is why I like his writing so much. The ideas are like onions, and age sheds layer after layer, revealing more depth when my mouse-brain is ready for it.
A little over a year ago, I had lunch with a Frenchman. He is one of the most respected people in his field, so I tried to not screw up my French too badly. (When meeting someone like him, it just seems rude to start off in English.) So he politely let me stumble over clumsy French for a few minutes, and then he asked who my favorite French writer was. Camus, bien sûr.
His eyes lit up. "Ah," he said. "I knew Camus."
"Really," I said. I was all cool exterior, but inside, it was holyshitholyshitholyshit. His parents had been friendly with Camus, but because he was a teenager, he didn't realize how big that was. Hearing his stories was a privilege because they revealed pieces of Camus the man, not Camus the symbol.
More than a few people have said that Camus is depressing, which makes me wonder how we can possibly be reading the same words. He is one of the more hopeful writers I've read. I'm not a Camus scholar or anything, but I've always admired the idea of knowing that you're going to lose — as we all do eventually — but fighting the good fight until you do. Pushing the rock up the mountain.
My favorite of his quotes used to be taped on my wall:
This is the deepest winter of my life so far. I don't know if I have ever felt this broken before. Not just broken-hearted but mentally and emotionally Frankensteined. Sometimes there's nothing I want to do more than nothing. Just slither under the covers and close the curtains and give up. But I make myself move through the world because I have to. What else can you do, quit? Hide?
I'd like to say that this attitude has led me to feel better. I can't. It doesn't change anything or erase my sadness. I still go to bed most nights trying to find answers to unanswerable questions. Things are not better now, but they will be eventually, because they must. And to quote another, less eloquent philosopher: At least I'm fucking trying. What the fuck have you done?
This is super corny, even moreso than MacKaye-quoting, but the last scene of Angel has always felt Camusian to me. To summarize: Angel and the gang are faced with a terrifyingly huge army of demons (told you this is corny). Wesley's dead, Gunn's almost there, and it's obvious that there's absolutely no way they'll win or even make a dent against their opponent. Evil's going to win. Then Angel, fully knowing the futility of it all, picks up his sword and says, "Let's go to work."
I think about this scene whenever I feel like giving up, and it helps. (Stop laughing at me.) If I keep pushing, even and especially when it seems like I'm getting nowhere, one of these days, things will get better — or at least I'll get a Dark Horse comic-book spinoff like Angel. Not sure how I got from Camus to Minor Threat to the Whedonverse, but there you have it.
A little over a year ago, I had lunch with a Frenchman. He is one of the most respected people in his field, so I tried to not screw up my French too badly. (When meeting someone like him, it just seems rude to start off in English.) So he politely let me stumble over clumsy French for a few minutes, and then he asked who my favorite French writer was. Camus, bien sûr.
His eyes lit up. "Ah," he said. "I knew Camus."
"Really," I said. I was all cool exterior, but inside, it was holyshitholyshitholyshit. His parents had been friendly with Camus, but because he was a teenager, he didn't realize how big that was. Hearing his stories was a privilege because they revealed pieces of Camus the man, not Camus the symbol.
More than a few people have said that Camus is depressing, which makes me wonder how we can possibly be reading the same words. He is one of the more hopeful writers I've read. I'm not a Camus scholar or anything, but I've always admired the idea of knowing that you're going to lose — as we all do eventually — but fighting the good fight until you do. Pushing the rock up the mountain.
My favorite of his quotes used to be taped on my wall:
In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.
This is the deepest winter of my life so far. I don't know if I have ever felt this broken before. Not just broken-hearted but mentally and emotionally Frankensteined. Sometimes there's nothing I want to do more than nothing. Just slither under the covers and close the curtains and give up. But I make myself move through the world because I have to. What else can you do, quit? Hide?
I'd like to say that this attitude has led me to feel better. I can't. It doesn't change anything or erase my sadness. I still go to bed most nights trying to find answers to unanswerable questions. Things are not better now, but they will be eventually, because they must. And to quote another, less eloquent philosopher: At least I'm fucking trying. What the fuck have you done?
This is super corny, even moreso than MacKaye-quoting, but the last scene of Angel has always felt Camusian to me. To summarize: Angel and the gang are faced with a terrifyingly huge army of demons (told you this is corny). Wesley's dead, Gunn's almost there, and it's obvious that there's absolutely no way they'll win or even make a dent against their opponent. Evil's going to win. Then Angel, fully knowing the futility of it all, picks up his sword and says, "Let's go to work."
I think about this scene whenever I feel like giving up, and it helps. (Stop laughing at me.) If I keep pushing, even and especially when it seems like I'm getting nowhere, one of these days, things will get better — or at least I'll get a Dark Horse comic-book spinoff like Angel. Not sure how I got from Camus to Minor Threat to the Whedonverse, but there you have it.
Karinsa used to have a Nick Hornby tribute diary, and it was always fun to read. So in the interest of continuing her legacy, and in furthering my Buffy love, I present the show's top five episodes that have been on my mind lately. They will make no sense to you if you are not into the show, obviously, and yes, I am fully aware that it is silly to identify with a show this much.
5. Chosen — Between the 30 Republican senators who say "up with gang rape" and this girl and this bigot, it has not been a great week for womanhood. I am imagining these jerks as Caleb, and visualizing Buffy putting an end to this mishigas.
4. Once More With Feeling — One of the most brilliant things I've ever seen on television. Spike's "If my heart could beat, it would break my chest" is one of the best lines from the series, and what about alienated, numb Buffy! The hardest thing in this world is to live in it. (It is impressively easy, however, to hear Anthony Stewart Head sing. Voice like butter!)
3. The Prom — Anyone who doesn't get misty-eyed when Angel shows up at prom (to the Sundays!) has carpet on his heart. And poor Buffy, so forlorn while Angel does the "noble" thing. (I would like to point out that when all is said and done, Angel winds up wanting her cookies anyway.)
2. Lovers Walk — Angel reads Sartre, Spike is love's bitch, and Sid Vicious makes a cameo. (Aurally, at least.) In typical Whedonian fashion, everyone suffers, and there's no tidy ending to make the episode end on an up note. It's not simple, and it's all believable.
1. The Body — Quiet and real. I don't think I can watch this episode for a while, but I keep thinking of how Buffy finds Joyce and says, "Mom. Mom? Mommy?" In our last days together, I similarly switched from Dad to Daddy. The death of a parent is particularly difficult because it forces you to be an adult at a time when you want nothing more than to be comforted like a child.
5. Chosen — Between the 30 Republican senators who say "up with gang rape" and this girl and this bigot, it has not been a great week for womanhood. I am imagining these jerks as Caleb, and visualizing Buffy putting an end to this mishigas.
4. Once More With Feeling — One of the most brilliant things I've ever seen on television. Spike's "If my heart could beat, it would break my chest" is one of the best lines from the series, and what about alienated, numb Buffy! The hardest thing in this world is to live in it. (It is impressively easy, however, to hear Anthony Stewart Head sing. Voice like butter!)
3. The Prom — Anyone who doesn't get misty-eyed when Angel shows up at prom (to the Sundays!) has carpet on his heart. And poor Buffy, so forlorn while Angel does the "noble" thing. (I would like to point out that when all is said and done, Angel winds up wanting her cookies anyway.)
2. Lovers Walk — Angel reads Sartre, Spike is love's bitch, and Sid Vicious makes a cameo. (Aurally, at least.) In typical Whedonian fashion, everyone suffers, and there's no tidy ending to make the episode end on an up note. It's not simple, and it's all believable.
1. The Body — Quiet and real. I don't think I can watch this episode for a while, but I keep thinking of how Buffy finds Joyce and says, "Mom. Mom? Mommy?" In our last days together, I similarly switched from Dad to Daddy. The death of a parent is particularly difficult because it forces you to be an adult at a time when you want nothing more than to be comforted like a child.
Labels: buffy
I got together with Mr. Coffee last night. I hadn't seen him since May, and I'd forgotten how broad his shoulders are. For some reason they stood out. I'd also forgotten how gentlemanly he is, and how smart, and how genuinely nice and politically aware and handsome and so on. Someday I will really kick myself for not falling madly in love with him. Decades down the line, when I am clutching my taxidermied Mikan ("He's a good little cat, he just sits there real quiet-like all day long with a blank stare in his eye") and watching Buffy reruns, I will regret not snagging him while I had the chance.
But that is then, and this is now. For now, we shared snacks and coffee and conversation. We talked about Fahrenheit 9/11 (good, but heavy-handed); clingy people who are all about dating you right away (yeek); and, of course, how Ted Leo's upcoming album is going to be the highlight of October (better than Halloween). Mr. Coffee told me that at the show I missed while traveling in Europe, Ted said something about "the middle third." While I tried to nibble my cookie, Mr. Coffee explained what the middle third is. It involves drinking one's own urine, and I prudishly hissed, "Mr. Coffee, I am trying to eat my cookie!" To which he attempted to absolve himself by explaining that it was Ted Leo who brought it up, not him.
The conversation moved on to books or something like that, and thank god for the timing, because who do we see walking down the street? Mahmood, Dave, and Ted himself. Quelle surprise; they weren't playing a show that night! I was very happy, but I didn't want to blow my cool by expressing too much excitement--it would have involved giddy hand-clapping--so I bizarrely started acting prim as Laura Bush instead. I was all manners and formality for some reason. Finally, someone said, "Um, you can sit down, Annie," and I relaxed.
After sharing funny "Metropolitan Diary" stories in character voices, we started talking about Madame Bovary and, yes, the middle third. There is nothing like pee talk to make me blush, and I was very happy when the topic moved from urine consumption to Eminem. I would much rather talk about his cinematic triumphs than drinking "liquid waste," as my fourth-grade teacher would call it. Eventually, the Pharmacists and Mahmood finished their coffees and went on their way. Happy coincidence, happy evening.
Labels: buffy
I wrote this back in September, but had been too busy to post it. From the 'Better Late Than Never' Files:
Last week, I had a Buffy party. I had about fifteen people over for snacks, television and chats. All was going well. I was a shining example of how to entertain, until (and there's always an until, isn't there?) around eight-thirty. At one point I realized that somebody smelled like poop! Literally. I mean, the foul fragrance was unbearable. You couldn't inhale without receiving a cruel whiff. I casually walked around the party, trying to find the Poop Bandit. No luck. It was a surprise to look down and find a big stinky smear on my shirt. Ah yes, when I picked my cat up to show off his cuteness, my little Mikan had left me a souvenir from the litter box. I'd been shit-shirted! I quickly dashed to the bathroom, only to discover that his fecal offering had wickedly befouled the air there. Ever the quick thinker, I spritzed some perfume to cover the offending stench. In my haste, I wound up spraying myself. The grace and poise just never stops, folks. It never stops.
Last week, I had a Buffy party. I had about fifteen people over for snacks, television and chats. All was going well. I was a shining example of how to entertain, until (and there's always an until, isn't there?) around eight-thirty. At one point I realized that somebody smelled like poop! Literally. I mean, the foul fragrance was unbearable. You couldn't inhale without receiving a cruel whiff. I casually walked around the party, trying to find the Poop Bandit. No luck. It was a surprise to look down and find a big stinky smear on my shirt. Ah yes, when I picked my cat up to show off his cuteness, my little Mikan had left me a souvenir from the litter box. I'd been shit-shirted! I quickly dashed to the bathroom, only to discover that his fecal offering had wickedly befouled the air there. Ever the quick thinker, I spritzed some perfume to cover the offending stench. In my haste, I wound up spraying myself. The grace and poise just never stops, folks. It never stops.
Labels: buffy
Owlie, Woodsy, Max Fischer, Humantorch, and I went out to celebrate our new apartment last night. Owlie and I were giggling because Beta Band was there. We talked about going up to him with her blue-salted margarita, saying, "What's this?" and then nodding and saying, "It's good."
We also came up with more plans for our public access show. It's going to be called Boys, Boots, and Buffy. See, the thing is, Owlie and I seem to have more gentleman friends than girl friends. Ergo, most of our stereotypically girly energy is repressed, and it comes out in a big way when we're together. All of our feminist scholarship and tomboyish qualities fall to the dust momentarily. In no way does this mean that we are frivolous or shallow. No, we take these topics very seriously.
That is why we will have an entire television show about the ubergirly topics. We haven't quite ironed out the details, but we do know that we'll have these weekly features:
- Thrift Store Score! In which Owlie and I showcase the week's best find from Unique Thrift.
- Ask My Perfect Boyfriend In which Woodsy fields questions from viewers, answering them in his inimitable, charming way.
- You Dick! In which I profile who has been shitty this week. Segment title to be pronounced in Spicolian fashion, of course.
- Buffy in the Diegesis (working title) In which Owlie and I dissect Buffy's sociocultural place within the Sunnydale universe—and in turn, its relevance to and symbolism of the young female experience.
We also came up with more plans for our public access show. It's going to be called Boys, Boots, and Buffy. See, the thing is, Owlie and I seem to have more gentleman friends than girl friends. Ergo, most of our stereotypically girly energy is repressed, and it comes out in a big way when we're together. All of our feminist scholarship and tomboyish qualities fall to the dust momentarily. In no way does this mean that we are frivolous or shallow. No, we take these topics very seriously.
That is why we will have an entire television show about the ubergirly topics. We haven't quite ironed out the details, but we do know that we'll have these weekly features:
- Thrift Store Score! In which Owlie and I showcase the week's best find from Unique Thrift.
- Ask My Perfect Boyfriend In which Woodsy fields questions from viewers, answering them in his inimitable, charming way.
- You Dick! In which I profile who has been shitty this week. Segment title to be pronounced in Spicolian fashion, of course.
- Buffy in the Diegesis (working title) In which Owlie and I dissect Buffy's sociocultural place within the Sunnydale universe—and in turn, its relevance to and symbolism of the young female experience.
Labels: buffy
Dear English Professor,
I admit, it was nice that you said I looked like Virginia Woolf in the hat. Literary allusions are generally quite alluring, and it's nice to hear that I "look like a modernist." However, your claim to have seen me at the establishment two weeks ago smells suspiciously like the cat's litter box, which is now going on day three of stagnancy. For I was most certainly not at that establishment two weeks previous. Ain't no two ways about that.
It was almost suave how you saddled up to my booth and asked me about writing, and how you laughed at my rolled-trousers joke. Ooh, and when you started talking about how you're editing So-and-so's final book, betcha thought that was the hook! Well, to be honest, I was really hoping to have a quiet night writing to dear Trevor. That's the reason I go to quiet places in the evening: to write alone.
Still, it's rare that I find somebody who shares my distaste for the comma splice, and a little conversation wouldn't have hurt. But then you did it! You really shot yourself in the foot! First you start asking me about Audrey Hepburn's sex life (after pointing out our alleged similarity, a thinly veiled attempt at feeling out my prudishness or vixenhood), then you follow up by saying that Marilyn Monroe liked being seen only as a sexpot. When I told you she was a brilliant but underestimated woman who read Schopenhauer and Kierkegaard, I was not bullshitting you; why did you doubt me? Because you read Mailer's books about her? Mailer is a woman-beating schmuck and you know it.
Furthermore (and to be honest, this is where you really got on my nerves), you callously dismissed Buffy without having ever seen an episode. "Pop culture is not worth studying," you sniffed. "Virginia Woolf is worth studying." Maybe she is (and what's with the Woolf fixation?), and I have studied her work, but the two subjects are not mutually exclusive. Angel reads Sartre and Spike makes wry allusions to the St. Crispin's speech; tell me that's not intelligent programming. Oh, you did. Maybe they don't have television in the ivory tower. Or maybe you like to pretend that you don't watch it, but really you're a closeted JAG fan.
Now, as for when you asked me out: Instead of telling the truth (you are a snob; you are too old for me; you talk to me condescendingly but seem to want some sort of youthful trophy on your arm) I said no, but thank you for asking. But you were persistent, all the while pretending that you weren't being pushy. But you were! Giving me your web site's postcard ("It's a literary journal, not a web site") would have been a classy move if it hadn't come after the "It's just a date!" routine. If it were just a date to you, you'd have let it go. But instead, you finally gave up, and abruptly stomped off.
In the future I hope that you are less pushy with women, and that maybe you will stop trying to intellectually bully nice girls into spending their time with you. You are undoubtedly intelligent and well-read, but reading literature means nothing if you can't learn some lessons about people in the process.
Stepping off the bossy soapbox,
Miss T
(ps) I just Googled your name and found out that you are forty! Forty! I am far too young for you!
I admit, it was nice that you said I looked like Virginia Woolf in the hat. Literary allusions are generally quite alluring, and it's nice to hear that I "look like a modernist." However, your claim to have seen me at the establishment two weeks ago smells suspiciously like the cat's litter box, which is now going on day three of stagnancy. For I was most certainly not at that establishment two weeks previous. Ain't no two ways about that.
It was almost suave how you saddled up to my booth and asked me about writing, and how you laughed at my rolled-trousers joke. Ooh, and when you started talking about how you're editing So-and-so's final book, betcha thought that was the hook! Well, to be honest, I was really hoping to have a quiet night writing to dear Trevor. That's the reason I go to quiet places in the evening: to write alone.
Still, it's rare that I find somebody who shares my distaste for the comma splice, and a little conversation wouldn't have hurt. But then you did it! You really shot yourself in the foot! First you start asking me about Audrey Hepburn's sex life (after pointing out our alleged similarity, a thinly veiled attempt at feeling out my prudishness or vixenhood), then you follow up by saying that Marilyn Monroe liked being seen only as a sexpot. When I told you she was a brilliant but underestimated woman who read Schopenhauer and Kierkegaard, I was not bullshitting you; why did you doubt me? Because you read Mailer's books about her? Mailer is a woman-beating schmuck and you know it.
Furthermore (and to be honest, this is where you really got on my nerves), you callously dismissed Buffy without having ever seen an episode. "Pop culture is not worth studying," you sniffed. "Virginia Woolf is worth studying." Maybe she is (and what's with the Woolf fixation?), and I have studied her work, but the two subjects are not mutually exclusive. Angel reads Sartre and Spike makes wry allusions to the St. Crispin's speech; tell me that's not intelligent programming. Oh, you did. Maybe they don't have television in the ivory tower. Or maybe you like to pretend that you don't watch it, but really you're a closeted JAG fan.
Now, as for when you asked me out: Instead of telling the truth (you are a snob; you are too old for me; you talk to me condescendingly but seem to want some sort of youthful trophy on your arm) I said no, but thank you for asking. But you were persistent, all the while pretending that you weren't being pushy. But you were! Giving me your web site's postcard ("It's a literary journal, not a web site") would have been a classy move if it hadn't come after the "It's just a date!" routine. If it were just a date to you, you'd have let it go. But instead, you finally gave up, and abruptly stomped off.
In the future I hope that you are less pushy with women, and that maybe you will stop trying to intellectually bully nice girls into spending their time with you. You are undoubtedly intelligent and well-read, but reading literature means nothing if you can't learn some lessons about people in the process.
Stepping off the bossy soapbox,
Miss T
(ps) I just Googled your name and found out that you are forty! Forty! I am far too young for you!
Labels: buffy
