SALMAGUNDI
(a 2nd serving)

^..^ Groucho Marx, on the preciousness of books, is worth quoting: Outside a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside a dog, it is too dark to read.

^..^ On dogs: My 1st dog was named Titit. Yes, Titit's a he. Otherwise I would have called her Pipip. My 2nd dog was Tatum, from my huge crush Tatum O'Neal. Currently I don't own a dog; they're prohibited by management. On books: I don't remember my first book but I remember the 1st book I bought for myself. Beginner's Chess. The 1st book that blew my mind was The Sound and the Fury by Faulkner. The best book I've ever read is James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Not only did it blow my mind, it also tore my heart. And I am grateful because now I have many minds and many hearts.

^..^ I just finished Saramago's The Cave, and my current read is Coetzee's Age of Iron.
An ocean of difference, these two. The first kisses your forehead, the other kicks your balls.

^..^ Harold Bloom reveres Shakespeare so much he considers him the inventor of human. In a lesser degree I revere Joyce as the inventor of the modern writer. In every fiction I read I try to find a Joyceness in the writing, in the author. The greater the Joycean subtlety, the more compelling the challenge. Jose Saramago, Frank McCourt (but of course!), and John Updike, do not offer any challenge. Their Joyceness has the radiance of moon, splendour of fire, stability of earth, and firmness of rock - like the Deer's Cry of beloved St. Patrick.

^..^ James Joyce tells me, through his works, it is cool to quote. A Portrait is, in fact, a miniature Bartlett's, heavy on quotations - from children's songs to Roman senatorial decrees, from religious mottos to literary classics - you end up not just moved but also informed.

^..^ Finnegan's Wake, they say, contains phrases in as many as 60 languages. When I scanned it one time (scanned, not read, which I can't, not yet), I almost jumped as in really jumped with the discovery of a Tagalog phrase, written in hip fashion, and which could have spawned the idea for The Vagina Monologues. The phrase is this: Kekkek Kekkek Kekkek! Koax Koax Koax. To translate in English from hip Tagalog, this would be: Pussy Pussy Pussy! I am I am I am. Later I found the phrase to be another quote. From Aristophanes.

^..^ One writer (conspiracy theorist?) declares finding the formula for hydrogen bomb in Finnegan's. Aha! This book could serve as interesting board game for bored intellectuals doing a long drive.

^..^ When he was 20 Marcel Proust was asked what his occupation was. He answered, Loving. I would have believed it if he said, Suffering.

^..^ Suffering was actually the commonest experience by those who read In Search for Lost Time (Remembrance of Things Past), and loving, by those who truly know how to read. I am not one of those. Yet.

^..^ Critics claim that Iris Murdoch's classic Severed Head is an exagerration on human relationships, and that the book suggests that we often fall in love for reasons that have nothing to do with the other person, but everything to do with ourselves. Is that an exagerration? In reality, is the suggestion true?

^..^ I'll quote again. Saramago again. In The Stone Raft he says that all of life is a coincidence, that we are not just aware that somewhere in the world somebody is doing the exact same thing we are doing. In other words while I am typing this somebody somewhere is typing this, at the exact same moment, pace, font, and yes, while the left forefinger is busy digging deep inside the nose.

^..^ Why did I raise the issue of coincidence? I'll bring this only now. Last March 27th I made an entry whereby I quoted the philosopher Lao Tzu. It turned out that on that same day my friend Jet David did an entry and she too quoted the great Chinese. But what drove me nuts, koinkidink nuts to quote Jet this time, was that my original entry had something to do with suicide. I entitled the piece Exit Wounds and as teaser I used the corrupted lyrics of Suicide Is Painless which I wrote as follows: Suicide is painful/ It brings on many changeful/ and I can't keep it or change it if I freeze (cbs, with apologies to Mike Altman) While finishing the entry, however, I felt a certain numbness in my head that told me to stop. I deleted the entry altogether and wrote a new one, All The names, where i quoted Mr. Tzu. Days after, I visited Jet's hubby's blog and found this coincidence. On the same day that I intended to have the suicide entry, Jay blogged about Suicide Is Painless. (I tried to comment on that but his comment box rejected me.)

^..^ If that was coincidental, this one's heart tugging. Little Lulu Vizcarra's entry in the blog she shares with sister Gabbi broke my already broken heart. In Cinammon Puppy, she declares her hurt because Daddy did not name their blog as one of his favorites, and as I read the entry, I can imagine, nay, see and touch, Lulu's little face in an expression of innocent rant and suppressed pain, stating 'Lame', referring to the failure of Daddy to draw inspiration from the blogging gratitude of a good daughter. There's is a childish truth in all of truth, and a child speaking it props up its meaning. Being one of her Daddy's favorites, perjurious or not, I can only offer Lulu an explanation that may be neither lame nor upright, but just about right. Probably, Daddy only wanted a new blog name: Cinabon Si Papi.