I share things I’ve enjoyed on Sundays, and I publish an essay, story, or book review (no spoilers) on Wednesdays. Here is what I enjoyed this week.
Every week, I am crawling away from the leg of my mother. The air is bracing, the mountains are barren, the valleys are green; ahead there is a precipice beyond which is the ocean. I am learning how to speak, but it remains a swing I can catch for only a moment. Certain elements, however, come quicker than others; in the last two weeks, I discovered how to tell a joke; yesterday, I managed five sentences. It is thrilling. Gesticulation and facial expression are more unconscious, thus more difficult to master, yet the lovely cosmic size of their mishaps educates. Of all activities, writing progresses my individuality the most, drinking the least, running cannot enhance as there is nowhere to go. I am already there. I do not have time to think and I am confident in its silence. All else I am learning anew. I am alive, dangling my feet. I am far from my mother’s leg, over the precipice.
Short Story: Chekhov is one of the greatest short story writers in history; The Lady with the Dog is amongst his finest works. The fifteen-page tale follows a smooth operator, likely modeled after the author himself, who meets a married woman while on vacation in Yalta. He writes in terse direct sentences that render complex characters and relationships in a small amount of space. They unfurl through the narrative and with them arises a plethora of fascinating questions. The story does not feel dense but rich; it is enjoyable to read at any one of its many layers. (Take a break from YouTube shorts.)
Essay/Article: The Crack Up is the brother, more mature by two years, of my favorite novel, Tender is the Night. It is F. Scott Fitzgerald’s somber reflection through which he contemplates his ambitions, his rise, his fall; it is a tale that aches through the arc of tragedy. The essay is written in his singular style, both poetry and prose, the pinnacle of rhetoric; each paragraph is packed with truths universal that create a dialogue between the reader and ask him to resist, to debate, to actively contemplate. Fitzgerald creates a new form in this piece, so different it is from the traditional essay. (More educational than TikTok.)
Also: I read a humorous piece from the New York Times, dated August 14th, 1937. The title is Hemingway Slaps Eastman In Face, which describes the story sufficiently. I do not need to say much more. (Journalism in its prime.)
Video: I spoke of Frusciante’s covers before and, since then, YouTube has decided to pull me to the depths of the rabbit hole. In this case, I am grateful. The following is a whacky, sweeping, spiritual monologue on how the guitarist thinks about creativity. My favorite part is when he speaks of art existing outside of human beings, as a part of the universe, and how our role is to incubate and transmute it into an anthropomorphic form. He thinks about music selflessly and relegates himself to a mere vessel; the real credit goes to nature.
Thanks for reading! In addition to my Sunday posts, I’ll publish a short story (9/13); then a review of Bright Lights, Big City (9/20). I pushed the schedule a week back because the story is still a work-in-progress.
And if you think someone would like reading this—or you just want to do me a massive favor—you can share it: