Woo hoo, that last entry went over like an anthrax-filled drum skin. Even a Z-list blogger like myself has to wonder why it is a particular post gets zero comments; was it the content, the bad writing, or have I succeeded in finally alienating even the sorriest suckers who were willing to click here to decipher that I again have nothing to say? It's been awhile since I've posted something that garnered no comments and so it seems I've descended to the nadir I've always assumed I'd sink to, where what I write has absolutely no meaning to anyone. If this the equivalence of a tree falling and no one hearing it, that's hardly monumental, even if I've lost my faith in nihilism.
The angel Mamacita blessed me with an hour or so of vital and witty conversation in a yahoo IM, trying to reassure me that this blog has value and that I'm loved or something. For those of you who have the magnificent privilege of actually knowing Mamacita, you know she means what she says and so although I was incredulous about her claims, I appreciated that her heart is pure. I knew she wasn't blowing smoke up my ass looking for a bigger buzz.
Likewise, those of you who really know Mamacita know that the converstaion will inevitably turn towards books. In one of her many wonderful acts of love (I have still not figured out why she finds me worth the trouble), she sent me a copy of Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair and I had to confess I had not yet picked it up. Oh, I'm looking forward to it but I've had other things to digest and yes, I'll get to it if only because she recommends it and it's "meta-fiction" - fiction for people who read, um, fiction.
In my experience, the best "meta-fiction" novel is Italo Calvino's If On a Winter's Night a Traveler, if only for this passage (and if only so I can trascribe this passage instead of actually having to blog - an issue Mamacita can explain for you - thanks, darlin'!!!):
In the shop window you have promptly identified the cover with the title you were looking for. Following this visual trail, you have forced your way through the shop past thick barricades of Books You Haven't Read, which were frowning at you from the tables and shelves, trying to cow you. But you know you must never allow yourself to be awed, that among them there extend for acres and acres the Books You Needn't Read, the Books Made For Puposes Other Than Reading, Books Read Even Before You Open Them Since They Belong To The Category Of Books Read Before Being Written. And thus you pass the outer girdle of ramparts, but then you are attacked by the infantry of the Books That If You Had More Than One Life You Would Certainly Also Read But Unfortunately Your Days Are Numbered. With a rapid maneuver you bypass them and move into the phalanxes of the Books You Mean To Read First, the Books Too Expensive Now And You'll Wait Till They're Remaindered, the Books ditto When They Come Out In Paperback, Books You Can Borrow From Somebody, Books That Everybody's Read So It's As If You've Read Them, Too,. Elluding these assaults, you come up beneath the tower of the fortress, where the troops are holding out:
the Books You've Been Planning To Read For Ages,
the Books You've Been Hunting For Years Without Success,
the Books Dealing With Something You're Working On At The Moment,
the Books You Want To Own So They'll Be Handy Just In Case,
the Books You Could Put Aside Maybe To Read This Summer,
the Books You Need To Go With Other Books On Your Shelves,
the Books That Fill You With Sudden, Inexplicable Curiosity, Not Easilly Justified.
Now you have been able to reduce the coutless embattled troops to an array that is, to be sure, very large but still calculable in a finite number; but this relative relief is then undetermined by the ambush of the Books Read Long Ago Which It's Time To Reread and the Books You've Always Pretended To Have Read And Now It's Time To Sit Down And Really Read Them.
If Mamcita's correct then I'm scott free, as far as my half-assed posting; you'll not only get the passage, you'll get my intent. She's overestimated me and in that, she rated my readers more than I do, suffice it to say. I figured anyone who read me was as dirt stupid as I am. Mea Cupla, you deserve her praise but it will continue to befuddle why the hell you're reading this, once, twice, or as is your habit.
UPDATE: I finally got a comment on my last post (thanks, Shari!), which says to me that I'm not merely as wothless as I say I am, just more stupid.