It's me, again.

Every few years, I reread William Gibson's Sprawl series: Neuromancer, Count Zero, and Mona Lisa Overdrive. I read them for the first time when I was about 19 or 20, having been the worst lit snob in existence until then. If it wasn't written by a dead guy or gal and wasn't from 1960 or earlier, I wanted nothing to do with it. I believe the series I read before becoming acquainted with Gibson was the Rougon-Macquart series by Emile Zola. So. Yeah. Big snob.

The first pass through the series was marked by a distinct feeling of being unable to consume the text rapidly enough. Neuromancer is, as has been noted elsewhere ad infinitum, a work of art. In 1984, well before the advance of what we know think of as the "digital age," Gibson envisioned -- or foresaw or whatever -- the absolute isolation inherent in living almost wholly in what he called the "consensual hallucination" of "cyberspace." Neuromancer also puts forth Gibson's -- old, draft-dodging hippie that he is -- theory that the "exceedingly rich are not even remotely human." With the depravity of 3Jane and her family of wealthy clones enjoying the virtual immortality that their money brings, Gibson's distaste for corporate wealth and distrust of inherited money is first given voice. It is further expounded upon in Count Zero, the second book in the series and often the most overlooked.

Books 1 and 3 feature Molly, the hot street samurai badass with the razorblade fingertips and the penchant for skintight leather, and therefore afford some feeling of continuity. Count Zero is something of a stand-alone masterpiece in itself, a lament of isolation and human emptiness, of longing for simple connection in a disconnected future. It is, in short, beautiful. I did not appreciate it fully until the third or fourth time I read it, which is why we read books more than once, and throughout the different phases of our existence. Turner's numbness means something more to me than it did when I was 20. Marly's search for the artist creating the mysterious Cornell-invoking boxes is more intimate. Virek's search for meaning from his vats in Stockholm has become equally horrifying and pitiable. The writing is unlike the other books in the series, and in it one recognizes the seedlings of Gibson's Idoru, the second book in his Virtual Light series, which is in itself very unlike its series-mates.

Gibson inherently understood pop culture well before it coalesced into what we know today. He understands the undercurrents of our era, and is able to communicate them in a surreal, almost dreamlike manner. He is exceptionally talented.

I've read the first two books in his most recent series and the second failed to move me. I have not read the third, and to be honest, it's pretty low on my to-do list. Either he's become more overt and aggressive in his politics in the last decade or I have become more adept at recognizing annoying preachiness in subtext as I have gotten older. It's probably a little of both. Pattern Recognition forecast the huge impact of viral media in our culture and also dealt delicately with the open wound of 9/11. I liked it quite a bit, but Spook Country annoyed me so much I couldn't finish it.

Thus I return to the Sprawl series again and again, when Gibson's vision was raw and only beginning to accumulate around his near-future premonition. I appreciate Count Zero more and more, and I can't imagine that will change. It is a beautiful lamentation written in anticipation of our everlasting isolation born in cyberspace. It is a Cornell box of sorrow.

The Awakening.

So I've been reading The Awakening by Kate Chopin. Haven't read it since college, and I like it as much, if not more, than I did then, but I'm confused as to Chopin's message. I cannot imagine that Chopin is doing anything but celebrating Edna's awakening, and yet I'm not entirely certain why Edna must die. Is it the oppressive Southern patriarchy of turn of the century New Orleans that holds her head under the waves, or is Edna actually mentally unbalanced? All suicide is selfishness, but that doesn't bother me. The part of Edna that galls me so is the detachment with which she views her children. I can't understand it. I understand selfishness, I understand betrayal, I understand all that -- but I don't understand casting off one's children for transitory pleasure. It's alien to me.

Leonce is a bore, though that does not lessen the severity of the betrayal. He is consumed with how appearances will affect his business ventures, which is absurdly appropriate for this character. But Edna's children are not invalid as objects of devotion and love because they are the issue of a loveless marriage with an incurable bore. Her absolute willingness to divorce herself from maternal love is irritating to me. I find myself less sympathetic to her suffering because of it.

It is oftentimes the black humor of the universe that we only find ourselves after we've entrenched ourselves in the immovable monument of a certain life. There is no doubt that we know ourselves better in our thirties and forties than we did in our twenties, though we tend to commit ourselves to a certain path in early adulthood, thus guaranteeing dissatisfaction and discontent in the ensuing decades. I find it darkly amusing, to be honest.

Is it courage that moves us to the sundering of all ties and commitments, or is it cowardice? Does a woman (or man) cast off their old life in exchange for freedom on account of a sudden surge of absolute bravery or is it the fear of irrelevance, of facing the reality of life and the decisions made often in the throes of passion?

I have no answers.

King of infinite space.

So I've been letting myself get a bit distracted. Camille Paglia's excellent book does not contain one poem by TS Eliot, which should be a crime. I skipped Whitman and Blake, because pious scolding annoys me, but there are some Yeats poems coming up. I've enjoyed the essays on Donne and George Herbert immensely however, though I'm not agreeing with her interpretation of religious themes. The thing about Paglia is that she is truly as open-minded as a person can be, and though her own prejudices come through, she's doing an excellent job. The fact that she's deconstructing poetry for a contemporary audience is delightful, and my only complaint is that her essays are too short. I want more. More depth, more discussion, more exploration.

A poem is a universe unto itself in a way that novels can never be. Spend time with each word, each pause as one would spend time exploring every inch of a lover's flesh. That's the good stuff. And poetry is as much about the history of the poet and their world as it is about my simplistic interpretation of a poem. I cut poems to fit my world, but they are so much more than that.

Paglia understands that, and her approach is scholarly and measured, which I appreciate. Definitely worth the time it takes to read it.

Paglia.

She's amazing, Paglia is. I have just started her book on poetry, Break, Blow, Burn. I would not be exaggerating if I said it was a magnificent book. Paglia is exquisitely educated and credentialed, and yet she is able to communicate her passionate love of the language and culture of America in a way that is simultaneously accessible and heady.

I must keep you updated, because this book is magical.

I've made my peace with it.

Florence + the Machine just does it for me. I can't say why, though it may be that she sings in my range, which makes car-singing much easier. Whatever it is, I love it. I find the music rather inspirational, and have found myself wanting to write a bit of poetry. So I did. And it sucks, but it's my suck. I love my unmetered, free-verse, ultra-lame poetry full of brutal, violent imagery of a vaguely sexual nature.

Which reveals a bit more about myself than is good for me, I suppose.

TS Eliot I am not, but I can live with it.

Soon.

I've begun reading Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury. Now, it takes me awhile to get into Faulkner, because I'm not sure I understand him, but the mood of his writing makes me very, very sad. I grew up in a rural, dead-end kind of place, and Southern writing seems to resonate with me.

I never did write about the ending of Identity, did I? It was... weird. There are some bits I'd like to go over in the future, as I've marked it up quite extensively, but I'm not sure when that will happen. I've been so busy lately, doing everything but reading, which makes me unhappy.

It seems like a good time for reading some Eliot, doesn't it? Literature and worthwhile poetry are meant to be revisited often, not to languish unread in books collecting dust on darkened shelves. My brain feels rather dusty right now, as does my joie de vivre. I suppose that isn't really the phrase I'm looking for. I just haven't had all that much time to experience things. I must slow down, if possible, and spend some time with my friend Tom.

Be back soon.

In other words, I was wrong.

Well, if you must know, I'm still tearing my way through A Song of Ice and Fire. My fit of literary pique has passed, and I realize that I just can't put down. The writing is not bad, and the politics are intriguing.

It is bleak, however, and I've had to stifle my disappointment more than once. I find the descriptions of Robert's bastard Gendry hammering iron half naked to be quite, ah, compelling. Thank God for my wonderful imagination.

All this to say I was being a snob in my previous post. I have stumbled a bit lately, writing before I think things through. I'm only human, I suppose.

And with that, I'm back to A Clash of Kings. How many gorram kings are going to sprout up? And who's going to kill Cersei and her bastard son/nephew Joffrey? That kid needs a good kick in the teeth.