好怀念童年的时光. 每當我看到龍貓的片段,都很懷念.
I just finished reading Five Skies
by Ron Carlson, and thought of something that Graham Greene said in the introduction of his short story collection. I have a lousy memory and am too lazy to dig up the actual quote, so if you will have to do with a poor summary of what he said. What he said, or at least, what I remember him saying was that there are short story writers and novelist. He happens to be latter, and just because a novelist occasional writes him short stories it does not make him a short story writer and vice versa.
Five Skies was a long short story. At least, that is the impression I had. I can't tell you how I bored I was reading the book. About one third into the book, I knew how the story would end, and indeed, it ended predictably. The clear trajectory, the structure of the book as a series of scenes/snippets felt like a short story that was dragged out. It didn't feel like a novel.
I always have this argument with Lee. He would literally tell me that the definition of novels, novellas and short stories are based on their number of pages. I think it stupid, and still do.
I felt as if I had read a very long and very unsatisfying story in Five Skies. The structure of the climax being very close to the end that works quite well in short stories didn't really work for me. Of course the fact that I've been bored for a long time didn't help. This made me wonder about what makes a novel satisfying for me, and how that is different when I'm reading a short story.
For me, I feel part of the joy of reading a novel, is getting lost in it. Not really knowing where one is being led, and then after all that getting lost, arriving at an ending that is unexpected (It has to be unexpected) but yet feels so right (that is the mystery of it that I can't quite explain), the ending needs to be like a kind of recognition. It is really a bit like getting lost and then being found again. Or like meeting someone, forgetting someone and then finding that same person again--recognizable yet changed. Does it all sound strange enough yet?
Because I can't decided which is worse. An odd disappointing ending that is unexpected (in the wrong kind of way) that really juts out and cheapens the entire thing, or an expected ending that fits so well with the entire set up that it just confirms the long drawn out boredom, that afterall, there is nothing more to discover. It is all there along, everything planted, neat and controlled, and utimately very fake.
Sweet Dreams are made of these
Woke up the other day from a dream where I was making out with a dog--one of those big dogs and it had cataract and was blind in one eye. I was looking into its white eyeball while we were making out. I smelt dog breath in the dream. I felt weird all day. it was like that one time I dreamt I ate a spoonful of raw salt and my tongue felt swollen all day. I swear I tasted the raw salt. I still remember that awful sensation.
The places our dreams take us. Thank god for them though. Because of dreams, I now know what it feels like to have eaten a spoonful of salt and to have made out with a dog.