Tuesday, December 17, 2002

I told you so I figured that Henry Kissinger wouldn't give up his lucrative consulting business in order to do his patriotic duty.  His preference for the bottom line over the moral imperative to address and redress the violence done to the victims of 9/11 is horrific and sad, but not in the least bit surprising.  On a happier note, I have the flu, uncovered a foul lie perpetrated by a team at work, have done almost zero Christmas shopping, and have been so generally out of sorts that I've been screening calls from my family and friends.  Everything I read (most recently Jonathan Franzen's How To Be Alone) fills me with anger and dread, and just a general sense of things gone wrong.  I'll get over it eventually.  This book by Mr. Franzen is actually very good, but it is a collection of personal essays after all, and I seem to share a bunch of less-than-desirable personality traits with the author.  He's merciless with himself, and therefore with me, which feels terrifically awful - like a dark hand extending through the pages, and circling my throat.  Whee.  There is an essay in this collection in which he details the research done by one Shirley Brice Heath, a linguistic anthropologist at Stanford, into who comprises the American audience for serious fiction.  This audience essentially breaks down into two sorts:  The first were those who had reading "seriously modelled" for them as young people, along with a peer with whom this interest could be shared.  The second type is "the social isolate" - the person for whom connection with the imaginative world of fiction comprises the most meaningful dialogue in their lives.  Perhaps you can see how this book hurts me.  In fifth grade, my teacher, Mr. Solomon, sat the class down and spoke very seriously (which was unusual, and therefore scary - he was the jolly, joking sort of teacher) about those in the class he felt were "left out" of playground activities at recess.  He named me and another girl, who I had never even really noticed was in the class, she was so quiet.  I didn't feel too very isolated, and didn't really want to run around the playground screaming, or playing kickball, or whatever.  I liked to spend my recess time reading books, or looking at plants.  I had just gotten a book about plants, along with a book about weasels, from my godparents.  Given the absence of weasels - who interested me a great deal at the time - on the playground, I had to make do with plants, and that was fine.  Very fine, in fact.  I recall being very happy that fifth grade year, particularly as I was away from all the mean kids who had tortured me in the fourth grade, when my family moved from Austin to Round Rock.  I was in a new suburb and a new school, with lots of other kids who were new to the city.  I don't know why I'm relating this particular story, really.  I loved the weasel book so much.  The cover was bright yellow, with a red border, and inside were many pen-and-ink drawings of various types of weasel, along with information about their habits - what they liked to eat, where they lived, and so on.  Maybe I just wanted to write about that excellent book, and the happy moments I spent with it, who knows. 5:32:58 PM