wonderous literature

(Possibly the most annoying post you are about to read) muwhaahah!
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Even before i was born, too many people have written about writing, read about reading, or not read and/or not wrote about neither, too many times for any discussion of this so-called 'meta-lit' to be considered remotely fresh or ingenious in anyway. and in similar spirit, all discussion of "XX" within "XX" in some annoying attempt to impress mr rajesh should be made illegal , if laws of sound waves and singapore, permit. But they dont, so, hell with that possibility. But returning to my earlier tangent, i suppose what im trying to say is, that a discourse or commentary on lit, should be taken as lightly as possible, and after beating in (or out) the 'deeper meaning' to its death, while trying to find it, i trust all will appreciate my expounding on the topic while practising as little a principle of charity as possible, and as big a refrain in the analysis of my clumsy, unintentional words. cause somethings were truly meant to be purely read but not performed, discussed or pondered on.



Its almost distant when i look back at the past and fancied myself literary is some manner of speaking, (of course spoken with a certain manner of pride). But i know now of course that im not. Merely meandering about in my musings sadly made me a milksop for meaning,instead of the master of the language i so marginally clung onto.


Twas last night upon hearing the admirations andrea (maybe rannald and amitha) had for my study and its contents that evoked this feel. A cordial bitter mix of pride and shame, from my relations. pride for having such well read and tasteful parents, and shame from not living up. Only I know too well of my love for picking books off a shelf and never finishing it (barely starting). This academic laze and stupor from which has resulted in the bookmarks between "a thing or two about cutis and camilla", "god of small things", "the crucible", "duchess of malfi", "great expectations" becoming permanent fixtures to their lucky page numbers, is something that im desperately trying to fight; and perhaps its really simply my efforts at fighting thats keeps this thin enough faccade for people like kenneth to include me amongst the 'literature people'. The effort to fight it. But effort only gets you "f"s, and F is not what i want. And though im not a Philistine, im finding hard to justify my lackadaisicalness. Buts thats just how i remain in both my writing and my reading habits. and so ill keep getting my "f"s. An "F" for footloose and carefree. another "f" for foolhardy and brash. and a third "F" for the Fun of it all. this brazen attitude and overconfidence is misplaced, and the source of all my rants..


but i dont see myself changing anytime soon, cause to be rather frank, im having fun. and i apologise for not being that ferocious bookworm i wish i was, but these occasional bites i help myself to, now and then, and my periodic dabble with my cooking pan has given me poetry to sustain my lie. my shelves stay decked, ill use the same excuse of a lack of time, and every now and then ill try and rhyme, and ill nod my head, when a reference is made, to some book or soem author and when some clever witticism has been made. if only i knew how witty it was. i wont die from never reading lord of the rings, and i can do with summarised version the movies present, as sad and unglamarous as these confessions may be. and that IS partly me. the disgraceful result when a lover of a good story and admirer of fine lines decides to fuel his diet with a quick-fix alternative.


so having dealt with that stigma, and fairly cleaning myself from all possible association with the upper circles of the vanguards of Trivium, i now must clarify to the side of men's health and harry potter fans, that Im not a total ignoramus, and that i sadly cannot claim to belong to either camp. And, well, it has been more than 5 years ago in a book fair at my primary school when i first picked up two books whose melancholy nature and surreal illustration caught my attention, and 13 X 13 chapters later I can proudly say ive been a true reader and a fan. That series of unfortunate events might have ended in bittersweet non-conclusion, but its left me feeling more fufilled as a student of literature than most paragraphs can claim credit for. ive felt enlightened, and in control, and the flow and play of words and letters entranced me like a girl ive once known who wanted to sing a song (but thats another story). but that series, and this is part which ive been unintentionally driving at, had this most serene and encapsulating ultimatum, that no amount of education or vocabulary could quite allow me to express. but we try to anyway, cause if we didnt, our role on this earth sure seems mighty unjustified. and the moral, it goes something like this.


that things end and things start all the time. that litertaure and novels and stories can never give the full picture. that we will never know if darcy and lizzy lived ever so happy, or why vernon little's dad was who he was. That life goes on, and that we will only be able to fill the middle chapters, always looking behind our shoulders and beyond the horizon, never knowing or coming close to predicting what lies ahead, or understanding why we lie where we lie now. that there can be no real conclusions. and while chapters end all the time, life doesnt.


so as much as i love lit, i must admit, im not the greatest of pupils. but to hell with all that. i love it. and right now. and right here. thats all that matters. and no amount of over-reading or contemplating into any meaning which can possibly be derived for a 17 year old's rantings and incoherent remarks about a seeminly singular subject, can ever explain this aesthetic experience and high. so with one last toast, and goodbye: cheers! cause im not pretending to know anything i dont. im merely commenting inspite of it.