One of the many beautiful cliches at Soho House West Hollywood…
So about 45 years ago Ayn Rand was actually human…
It’s wonderful and disappointing to see that someone — demonized, idealized, and rarely humanized — is a person. Appearing on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson in 1967, while Ayn Rand has the severe hairstyle of one of her heroines, she also has a distractingly thick Russian accent, doesn’t correct Carson for mispronouncing her pen name, and, while carefully articulating her philosophy of rational self-interest, including why one should be intimate only with those who personify one’s morals, she seems to want to be liked.
Which is not a wild departure from the author I might have imagined after re-reading Atlas Shrugged for the billionth time a billion years ago, but when one remembers a lot of Rand’s lit dealt with the physical representation of values, such as the elegant minimalism that results out of efficiency, one begins to wonder about Ms. Rand’s bulky brooch.
I’m just here to keep you to focused on what’s important…
“Bright girls, when given something to learn that was particularly foreign or complex, were quick to give up – and the higher the girls’ IQ, the more likely they were to throw in the towel… More often than not, bright girls believe that their abilities are innate and unchangeable, while bright boys believe that they can develop ability through effort and practice.”
So that’s why it’s 8 pm, I’m still sitting in my Marlies Dekkers, staring at my MacBook, thinking maybe I wasn’t meant to write a Great American E-Book instead of pushing myself to do so. I’m glad I found this article and was able to understand how it applies to what I’m dealing with right now.
Some people are just born smart…
I decided one day would be the last day I had a weeks-old head cold, and I also decided to revel in my last sick day, sitting around in my Marlies Dekkers, being brainless, and indulging in watching Sarah Jessica Parker’s top episodes of Sex and the City.
What I’d vaguely remembered as an iconic series about frank women played as dated, ditzy glitz about middle-aged girls who were defined by their relationships with each other, which were defined by chattering about their relationships with men. I would wax critical about the show’s superficial sexuality, crude caricatures, and ceremonial materialism, but if the show taught me anything about the human condition, it’s that –
Women often talk too much.
It looks like my German Shepherd dog Major Dukes borrowed my time machine again…
Translations always stiffen a story — local settings blur into blank spots on a foreign map, characters are stripped of their cultural context, and a narrator’s conversation with a reader is distilled of comfortable connotations.
While I felt compelled to finish Haruki Murakami’s hyped novel, I skipped pages without missing much, and wondered why, if 1Q84 gets Nobel Prize buzz, Stephen King hasn’t won plenty of Pulitzers. (Murakami’s device of name-dropping obscure symphonies and Russian lit would mean more if one was trying to get laid in a Brooklyn cafe, and the last Pirates of the Caribbean was harshly criticized, not high-fived, for having characters without clear motivation.)
Maybe I would have enjoyed 1Q84 more in its original Japanese.
Mostly because I can’t read Japanese…
While carrying a €100 notepad and an iPhone appeals to neither my cents nor sensibility, a notebook titled “NOW OR NEVER” feels romantic, like the unrealized dreams it could contain: the thoughts of an Albanian heroine of the novel that’s floated through my head for four years, bicycling by bamboo waterwheels while touring Guangxi Zhuangzu, and the beauty of the thousands of things thousands of dollars might do to my face while playing with needles in 90210.
Like, le sigh…