And Love Her

I knew there was a reason I keep reading Su-lin's boggling. It's because she's intelligent and clever, and actually knows how to write - which is always nice. It's the kind of thing that it's nice to wake up to, to discover a tiny narrative of happiness or little vignette of a happy occasion, evoking perhaps the shared memory of the future while exercising the will towards nostalgia and the romantic desire for companions. I'm rather ashamed that I ever chastised Su-lin for not making her prose more interweb friendly by using short paragraphs as I do for the sake of plate-spinning attention. I think it has a lovely pith to it that reminds me (not in terms of pith necessarily) of the picnic in Brideshead. The perhaps unfortunate effect of the passage though is to render the character of the author as a vaguely marmish and scoldingly fond woman - one that is held in such regard by those that love her. And love her in an almost dismissive Sports Night manner. Just because this is what I'm doing right now I might as well confess that I've probably thought in the past, and likely think now, that Su-lin and I are probably not the best or most natural of friends, but happen to be people who despite that try very hard at working at it, for whatever reason, to attempt to make it work. The silly romanticism of Louis early in the morning. That requires the shame-laden indecision of a dismissive and vaguely comically rendered and protractedly convoluted retraction and disavowal. With that easy shame of shrugging of shoulders, 'I don't know'. I suppose I do subscribe to the notion of reading with the spine, but every so often, the sentimentality of the gripping of the chest is a rather fine way to judge and experience narrative. You can find the entry here.