Dear People of New York: Happy Summer!!! Please don't wear open-toed shoes if you haven't got toenails.
Today at work I re-read Victor Hugo on social duty--that everything has to start with the lives of the miserable and aim at their improvement, always. A clumsy paraphrase. I sat down tonight to write a bit for here and this is what I started writing: "That was a long damn spring. Grueling weather-wise and otherwise insane. Full-blown misanthropy its legacy to me: and now no one has enough clothes on. (Either?)"
I live at the beach. I am already weary this season of seeing little black girls who've recently "developed" walking around the neighborhood, blocks away from the boardwalk, in the skimpiest of string bikinis. Shopping in the convenience store. Up on the train platform. With big tits in bikinis. I know, I know the display most probably means they've already been molested, their modesty stolen and broken in front of them; I know they don't know any better than to repeat, repeat, repeat their roles in crimes committed against their own persons. Which are sacred. They are the miserable. I recognize them from Les Misérables. In one scene that takes place on a freezing April night in 1832, Little Gavroche shivering in rags gives away his scarf-like garment to a destitute girl who's outgrown her own rags; her legs are showing. He is a hero. I'm thinking, I should start carrying t-shirts around to hand to these poor girls: Here sweetie, you should put some clothes on, here.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
I am sorry. Reading The Road on the train really put me off my game so far as writing about reading Les Misérables at work is concerned. Although I had meant not to apologize or blame. But there I go. I have continued to read Les Misérables at work; at present I am deep within the Saint-Denis volume (4), among the chapters on Slang. The Road I thought was very clever in the end. It also made me cry. The reading of the writing I found deeply unenjoyable but then it wasn't done any favors by sharing my reading days with Les Misérables given that I prefer a more generous writing style anyhow. Child of God which is 35 years older than The Road I read next and liked much better. Now I keep wondering whether Cormac McCarthy believes he's improved.
I suppose he must.
I suppose he must.