I've managed to finish 2 decent novels in the past 36 hours, which brought back all the wonderful memories of devouring books when i was younger, a passion which has been unable to manifest itself lately(how many books have i started and not finished?") and i'm glad that I managed to pick relatively interesting books to ensure that I didn't feel the disappointment I feel with some of the literature I'm picking nowadays (read one, read all?). It helped I was on duty, though I missed a class outing. Bother.

No, I think I'm being picky. And it helps when something you're reading is resonant, touches a nerve.

Disgrace, J.M Coetzee

I like some books, and I'm disinterested in others. I've acquired a weird skill of attuning myself to the level the book is pegged for. For example, a book like "Rich Dad, Poor Dad" for example. It is the sort of book I would initially dismiss because it's a stupid book about making money with an arrogant writer who's ripping off millions. Putting prejudices aside though, I can read the book rather dispassionately and even find a modicum of sense in some things that he's saying. (So, he's not a ripoff after all). And some practical things are learnt. Very well.

Professor Lurie is a teacher of classics, unfortunately, in modern South Africa, the need for graduates of the school system to be well-versed in skills for lifetime employment is acute. As such, Prof. Lurie has to make do with teaching modules of Communications, beneath him perhaps, but as he says it keeps him grounded and humble. Once a year he has a course on literature, and it happens to be Romantic poetry this year (ooooh). He looks forward to this with the primal longing of a prisoner in detention barracks hoping to get his colour pencils so he can start drawing, a salvation, if you can call it that, something that seperates him from all the other detainees. Unfortunately, all he has are a bunch of disinterested, disengaged souls, phillistines who cannot differentiate their Byron from their Blake, and that's when Prof Lurie realises he probably still is a prisoner. Of course, this is probably all too damning on the poor students who must have liked poetry in the first place, only unable to match Prof Luries years of erudition and scholarly work on his pet topic.

Professor Lurie's extra-curricular activities are the gratification that sex brings. They used to be wives, women, and now a whore. The whore though, unexpectedly walks out of his life, plunging him into an abyss of boredom. It is from this dark abyss where the germinal seeds of his downfall are planted.

True to his nature, Prof Lurie is beguiled by a student of his. Fair play to him, he is one romantic bastard. He sleeps with her, and although he's no longer the hunk he was when he was younger, he's probably still pretty damn good, but unfortunately 50 yr old men and an 18 year old girl do not go together, not today, not in this world.

Word gets out, and he is summoned for a hearing. What they really want to hear though, is an apology, which Prof Lurie will not grace them with. Dignity, or just trying to be a stubborn old fuck, but he refuses to believe what he does was wrong, that men were born to fuck, and damn why should you punish people for doing that.

Away from it all, he ventures to the country to stay with his daughter, and why not, for he is an outcast in Cape Town. Unwanted. He brings with himself the dignity that his intelligence affords him. Lucy, the farm-owning daughter, with all her dogs, is leading a peaceful if benign existence, though she herself is an anomaly in an increasingly black and male land-holding estate since the removal of apartheid.

This peace is shattered when 3 men enter the place and smash it to bits. Prof Lurie is mildly burned(burnt?) in the process, and Lucy is raped. The relationship begins to fall apart as Lucy begins to withdraw and remove herself from whatever rational advice is given. And day by day the clock ticks, and Prof Lurie is aging.

I remembered this book, the Penguin classic version, a few years back. It was a brown mangy dog, scratching itself. Disgrace. Prof Lurie, having to wander away like Cain with a mark on his shoulder.

I probably do not understand what it's like to age, to suddenly have all this time which you needed when you were younger. Beautifying the house, painting it, like my dad, trying to find a peaceful coexistence with the rest of the world. How painful it must be for the apotheosis of the self to fade away, to learn that one is no longer needed or required any more.

Is it Prof Lurie's god-given right to fuck? To share his beauty with the world. And not to deny himself his nature, which would be hypocrisy. And how does he feel towards the 3 black boys who raped his daughter? Is it right for them to remain so animal? But it's different of course, his is the way of Byron, theirs is the way of dogs. Is that the only difference? His daughter, though different, shares the same characteristic of clinging to the world the way she sees it, refusing to let circumstances change them. Or has Prof Lurie been disgraced by running away to his quiet refuge. I'm quite sure I had more to say, but this will suffice for now.

The next book I read is The Fight, by Norman Mailer. It's another book written in the 3rd person but with the writer projecting himself on himself (weird). He refers to himself as "Norman" in the book.

It's about what's been hyped as the greatest fight in history. The rumble in the jungle. Over 30 years ago, Ali vs Foreman. Having watched the film and short clips of the fight, boxing just inspires. There's something guttural in watching the art of beating the next man to pulp. I'm not a boxing guy, but these guys apparently were artists. Ali would float from place to place in the ring(I always think footwork is impt in sports, but maybe that's cause I'm not a very strong person so skipping arnd is easier).

It's the way it happens in the story and the fight, as if what was willed to happen indeed happened. Through destiny. And Ali was giving the impression he wasn't training very hard, maybe he hadn't, but he'd been training long, and was probably worn out. It's the way they played to character in the ring, Foreman the big basher and Ali, came out floating like a butterfly, stinging like a bee, but comign up against a guy seemingly impervious to punches.

In subsequent rounds, as Ali kept close to the ropes, taking punishment, a strategy of masochism. Foreman bashed away, Ali taunted "Is that all you got Foreman". It's all the trash talk, it's for real, it's not fucking WWE.

In context, it was just a fight, it didn't save Zaire from crushing poverty and when you put everything into perspective. God. But putting everything into perspective means we are very small indeed.

I also saw my IQ scores for the first time this week, the one I took when I was pretty little. I was quite surprised really. You can't really divine much from a test. And when I did emode and stuff... I usually score the same for verbal and math. So I thought... gosh actually I probably could have been quite mathematical, just that I didn't study or something. I always thought it was a waste. And it's weird cause I think I think rather rationally or coldly at times.

Anyway, in the test scores my performance IQ is significantly lower. That's supposed to mean I'm not a performer right? Hah. But my verbal was pretty decent, and I guess, yeah if you ask me I'm a pretty verbal person. I remember words well, images, things just come back to me. I guess I'm not very good at a lot of things, but I just think a lot in words, and maybe that's why I don't do very well with other things. BUT it is a bad habit to rationalize away bad things like that, so i will STOP and I will be POSITIVE and change for the better. There.

Any other matters. heh. just like an ops order. OK. Church. Went to church alone today and was moved. I used to find mass boring and I must admit that it probably can't beat like all the funky Christian societies and lives that young Christians lead. Maybe I'm selfish but unfortunately I'm not a very good person when it comes to sharing lives so I guess that's my approach towards faith. I'm not very Christian but I keep getting moved in church. It's so homely, and there's a certain comfort about knowing what the priest will say next, hymns and traditions that have been passed down for hundreds of years. And it was the beatitudes! My favourite. Blessed are the meek. Blessed are the poor. Blessed, blessed, blessed. Viva the underdog!

And I went down to Mohammed Sultan for dinner today and thought, who is Mohammed Sultan? An ancient Malay Temenggong? Most interesting. What would he make today of the bars and the spanish guitars (strum strum) and the tile-lined sidewalks and the expats and the japanese ramen restaurants. And the alcohol and the puking young. Oh what sacrilege. But maybe he wasn't too good in his day and had a few harems himself.

Okay! C'est ca! C'est tout que je voulait decrire.