simple as that.

We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It’s easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven’t even met yet, probably. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these loveable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.

Chuck Klosterman, Killing yourself to live: 85% of a true story

profoundly selfish

In May of 1948, author Ayn Rand received a letter from a fan named Joanne Rondeau. In it, she asked Rand to explain a sentence in her bestselling 1943 novel, The Fountainhead, which reads:

To say 'I love you' one must first know how to say the 'I'.

Rand responded with the following letter.

May 22, 1948

Dear Ms. Rondeau:

You asked me to explain the meaning of my sentence in The Fountainhead: "To say 'I love you' one must first know how to say the 'I."

The meaning of that sentence is contained in the whole of The Fountainhead. And it is stated right in the speech on page 400 from which you took the sentence. The meaning of the "I" is an independent, self-sufficient entity that does not exist for the sake of any other person.

A person who exists only for the sake of his loved one is not an independent entity, but a spiritual parasite. The love of a parasite is worth nothing.

The usual (and very vicious) nonsense preached on the subject of love claims that love is self-sacrifice. A man's self is his spirit. If one sacrifices his spirit, who or what is left to feel the love? True love is profoundly selfish, in the noblest meaning of the word — it is an expression of one's highest values. When a person is in love, he seeks his own happiness — and not his sacrifice to the loved one. And the loved one would be a monster if she wanted or expected such sacrifice.

Any person who wants to live for others — for one sweetheart or for the whole of mankind — is a selfless nonentity. An independent "I" is a person who exists for his own sake. Such a person does not make any vicious pretense of self-sacrifice and does not demand it from the person he loves. Which is the only way to be in love and the only form of a self-respecting relationship between two people.

Ayn Rand

back to black

“We bargain in good faith, those of us who will read anything, hoping at least to complicate ourselves, at most to save our souls… we put up with a lot and forgive even more… in return for vitality, spontaneity, and the occasional hot flash, we pretend not to notice what’s skin-deep, addlepated, nasty, brutish, and short.”- John Leonard, review of The Diviners by Rick Moody, New York Times, February 9, 2006

photo credit: Charlotte Posenenske

Z is for Zillah who drank too much gin

Setul ăsta mi-a amintit cît de mult îmi place Edward Gorey. Poveștile sale de un neo-victorianism delicios de lugubru, cu personaje ciudate, accidente fatale, imagistică suprarealistă și jocuri de cuvinte deștepte, mi-au servit mereu de inspirație și gimnastică mentală.

Mi-am cumpărat Freshwater: A Comedy, de Virginia Woolf în mare parte pentru desenele realizate de Gorey iar dacă aș avea vreodată norocul ca Olympia Le-Tan să se ofere să-mi colecționeze una din faimoasele ei genți plic cu coperți de cărți, aș alege fără preget una ilustrată de maestru, preferabil asta:

Marea suferință a vieții mele recente a fost că nu am putut ajunge la Boston Atheneum, să sorb din ochi expoziția Elegant Enigmas: The Art of Edward Gorey, care a ținut pînă pe 4 iunie. Aș fi văzut acolo ilustrații în cerneală, schițe preparatorii, desene nepublicate, păpuși handmade rare, făcute după chipul și asemănarea personajelor lui Gorey. Și era doar cinci dolari intrarea, și te lăsau o oră să zburzi nestingherit printre desene... *sigh* ... Partea bună e ca a apărut un album omonim cu toată tărășenia petrecută în cadrul expoziției, un album pe care e musai ca mie să mi-l aducă Moș Crăciun. Sau Moș Nicolae, că nu mai am răbdare. A se comanda frumos și simplu de pe amazon.

Și dacă tot suntem la capitolul cărți de Gorey pe care mi le-aș dori în bibliotecă, I would kill to receive The Water Flowers, ”an amusing tale detailing the perils of white sauce”. Se pare că e out of print, dar mai poate fi găsită o copie aici.