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I find it very tiresome when I wish to partake in a serious and deep-ranging literary conversation and everybody else in the entire school seems to have nothing else on their minds save class elections and dancing.
Some genius once wrote that one should try everything once except incest and morris-dancing, and Id like to propose that student politics be added to that list. No good ever came of anyones involvement in it, and all it will do is leach away the time of those who are elected and involve them in petty, trumpery debates on what drinks should be sold in the vending machines and the size of the pompoms for the cheerleaders. Wells, Im disappointed in you.
I intend to spoil my ballot paper and I call upon all my friends to do likewise. I hear that the new kid, Bakunin (can that tonguetwister be a name?) has been saying much the same, so at least I know Im not alone in being a voice of sanity here.
My muse remains mostly absent, though I did conjure up a short poem:
This school is not a school; it is a web,
Spun by a spider drunk or drugged or mad,
Snaring the good, yet setting free the bad,
Sundering friend from friend and Hon from Reb.
This school is not a school; it is a fen,
A mirey quagmire into which all sink,
A bog that sucks away each thought you think,
And eats your brain to spit it out again.
This school is not a school; it is a blank,
An empty nothingness of purest grey
Through which we stumble day upon grim day,
And know not whom to curse or whom to thank.
You say 'Youve got it wrong, old GBS?'
I say Ill punch you on the nose. Hell, yes.
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Comments: Read 13 or Add Your Own.
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I have been musing upon this issue following Jane Austen and Phillips Lovecraft's conversation regarding what nomenclature the latter fellow prefers to be addressed by. It seems that like me he dislikes his Christian name and would prefer to be addressed by his middle name.
Alas for Lovecraft, while my middle name is quite serviceable as a first name, his is not. Phillips Lovecraft sounds to me like a law firm.
One reason why so many of my first drafts of fiction end up in the waste paper basket is the difficulty I have with naming characters. I confess I sometimes sigh for the days when it was acceptable to give your characters monickers such as Ned Nimble or Tom Torment. Ah, Thomas Love Peacock, we owe you so much for making this no longer a viable option.
This doesnt help Lovecraft, of course. The only other option I can think of for him would be to make an acronym from his initials and coerce people into using that to address him. HPL. It trips off the tongue quite lightly, doesnt it? HPL. HPL.
Come to think of it, so does GBS.
I may be onto something here!
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Comments: Read 29 or Add Your Own.
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Everyone else posted theirs decades ago, so I suppose I should really put my class timetable up here in case anyone cares.
1: Social Studies. (Dull and tedious but I can let three quarters of my brain sleep through it if I had a late night.)
2: Latin. (Relatively easy. Emily B. is more entertaining than the teacher.)
3: Drama. (Best subject of the day. Always something to get my teeth into.)
4: Chemistry. (Why do we have to take a science? But since we do, it may as well be one that enables Lawrence and myself to lurk at the back of the laboratory and produce interesting smells.)
5: Pol. Sci. (More interesting than it sounds, though I think Lawrence disputes that point.)
6: CALM. (Why? Why? Why?... but at least when it is over, I am free for the remainder of the livelong day...)
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Comments: Read 7 or Add Your Own.
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Three more attempts to write My Novel (how foolishly I thus grace the abortive effort with capital letters!) have resulted in no more profit or satisfaction for anyone save the waste paper merchant.
I am, therefore, going to stop trying to write fiction for a month or two at least. I dont see why I should torture myself. The trouble with attending a school thats such a hotbed of talent as this is that you know youre only passable and there are so many around you who are great or who at least bear the potential for greatness.
It would seem that I dont just want to be a good writer, I want to be among the leaders in my field. Which I shall patently never be at this wretched academy of overachievers.
Speaking of hot beds, I wonder why one always speaks of them as a thing to be desired. I wouldve thought a hot bed would be most uncomfortable to lie in. Still, I suppose it would serve to severely discourage reds under it. (Can I work out a joke about things being in apple pie order? No.)
Mem. to self. Do not abandon fiction for career as stand-up comedian, either.
Perhaps I should just go & get stotious with Wells and Lawrence, the closest people to approach to congenial fellow-male company in my entire circle of acquaintance. Know Lawrence not averse to drink. Not so sure abt. our Herbert though. Have to ask him after classes today.
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Comments: Read 11 or Add Your Own.
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An authors best friend is the waste paper basket, it is said; and when I review in my mind the eighteen pages of manuscript that were intended to serve as the opening chapter of my novel, into which receptacle they have lately been consigned, I realise that no truer words were ever spoken.
Rather than make a fresh start I turn again to this journal.
I shall not dwell on the low points of my recent days. To do so would only render this diary indistinguishable from the myriad others which cover in tedious detail their owners every cough, sneeze, bowel motion and episode of writers block (not to mention their every toke, snort, shoot-up and other drug-related doing). No, I shall concentrate on the good points.
...
...are there any?
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, April 27th, 2005
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| Subject: | Mem. to self |
| Time: | 7:15 pm. |
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Look up 'rodomontade' in the dictionary. For both meaning and spelling. It looks as if it ought to start with an RH, but if that brain-box of a Bronte girl spells it without, shes probably right. It sounds a very impressive word, all flourishes and curlicues. The kind of word thatd be used by Shelley, Wordsworth and their little clique in between passing round clove cigarettes.
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Comments: Read 9 or Add Your Own.
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Tuesday, April 26th, 2005
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Today begins a new stage in my glorious career; high school. To mark the fact that Ive reached such a milestone as this, Ive decided to commence a journal. I hear theyre all the rage. Though I normally shrink from partaking in anything that reeks of fashionability, of late, so many words seem to have been clamouring inside my head to be free of the confines of my skull and demanding their right to be set down on paper where they belong, this seems a passable way of at least easing the mental pressure somewhat.
I confess that I await with trepidation my introduction to my fellow students. Most others of my age are either confounded reactionaries, or else dangerously unstable, or else simple lunatics; or of course all three in some cases. But in a school of this stature there must surely prove to be one or two fellow literary spirits, maybe even some socialist thinkers. Wouldnt it be wonderful if this proved to be so! Talent withers in isolation but thrives in company, and let me face it, my talent certainly isnt so strong that company wouldnt do it a world of good.
Later: Joy of joys! it seems I am fallen among kindred spirits. Some girl with the peculiar name of Bronte is bruiting it about that she intends to issue a poetry magazine. I wonder whether she would prove amenable to broadening its remit a little to include criticism.
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Comments: Read 4 or Add Your Own.
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georgiebernie's journal