When I was growing up, the article of clothing now universally referred to as a hoodie (or possibly hoody) was simply called a sweatshirt, just like it's non-hooded relative. I'm not complaining about this neologism at all; I think hoodie is a fine addition to the English language. Now we have a way to differentiate the hooded item from the non-hooded one.
Because I didn't grow up using the term hoodie, though, whenever I hear it I react in a way I don't when I hear the names of other articles of clothing. Specifically, I immediately get a snatch of song lyrics in my head. More specifically, lyrics from "Pop Goes the Weasel"--not the children's song, mind you, but the anti-Vanilla Ice diatribe from erstwhile rappers 3rd Bass. "In the hoody with the woody/Buy a disco tape at Sam Goody," says Pete Nice.
Except he doesn't. Turns out what he actually says is, "Buy a disc or tape at Sam Goody." For some reason this is incredibly disappointing to me. It's like, the way I thought it was written sets up this great image of hopeless unhipness--buying crappy music (yes, DISCO STILL SUCKS, with the noted exception of KC and the Sunshine Band) in an obsolete format from a shopping mall chain store--that supports the song's overall theme, which is that Vanilla Ice is hopelessly unhip. But the way it's actually written, it seems like it's just a cute rhyme.
The only other time this phenomenon occurs--the Instantly-Getting-Rap-Lyrics-in-my-Head-When-I-Hear-a-Certain-Word Phenomenon--is when someome mentions UPS, which my boss does sometimes because he worked there when he was younger. Then I get a stanza from (the awesome) Biz Markie's (awesome) "The Vapors", in which Biz gets back at all the losers who dissed him and his crew before they were famous, in this case a girl who wouldn't go out with his friend T.J. Swan: "The type of female with fly Gucci wear/With big trunk jewelry and extensions in her hair/When Swan tried to kick it, she always fessed/Talkin' about 'nigga, please, you work for UPS.'"
There's a related phenomenon, the Instantly-Getting-Rap-Lyrics-in-my-Head-When-I-See-Someone's-Face Phenomenon, which only happens with John McEnroe. Then, of course, it's this (immortal) couplet from House of Pain's (immortal) "Jump Around": "I'll serve your ass like John McEnroe/If your girl steps up I'm smackin' the ho." I have to say, that line is stoopid and misogynistic and I hope Everlast regrets it, but come on: he rhymes "McEnroe" with "SMACKIN' THE HO." That's pure genius.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.
November 22, 2006
October 10, 2006
Of werewolves and cranberries
This is the kind of thing I usually annoy Amy with by email, but since no one reads this except Amy and maybe three other people, why not just put it here?
There’s this (great) Throwing Muses song called "Garoux des Larmes". Somewhere on the internets, I can’t remember where, I encountered someone who translated this as "Werewolves of the Tears", which: not exactly. The French word for werewolf is loup-garou (pl. loups-garoux), loup being the word for wolf. Garou, on the other hand, is not the word for anything. (At least, not the French word for anything; I researched it once [me = tremendous dork] and found that it’s a Provençal word for a type of shrub. I don’t think that’s relevant in this context.) It appears that garou is an example of what linguists call a cranberry morpheme. If you can’t be arsed following that link, and you’re not Amy, I’ll tell you, briefly, that a cranberry morpheme is a unit of language that transmits meaning in a compound word but has no meaning on its own. Everyone knows that a cranberry is different from a blueberry or a strawberry, and that they are all berries, so "cran" transmits meaning in that it distinguishes one type of berry from another, yet divorced from its partner, "cran" is meaningless. Likewise, garou is meaningless outside of the compound loup-garou.
Just today I realized something that is doubtless coincidental yet utterly fascinating: the "were" of English "werewolf" is also a cranberry morpheme! How kooky is that? I realized this, by the way, while learning that the "were" in werewolf comes from an Indo-European root meaning "man" (hence "manwolf": makes total sense), which you can also see in the Latin cognate vir.
Cranberry morphemes are generally free to form other compounds, which is why we can have words like cranapple and wererabbit (though these are often hyphenated, which would seem to indicate that the neologists who invent them aren’t totally convinced that it’s kosher). I wondered if, in France, Wallace and Gromit had to deal with un lapin-garou, and heeeeeeeee: they did!
I love language.
There’s this (great) Throwing Muses song called "Garoux des Larmes". Somewhere on the internets, I can’t remember where, I encountered someone who translated this as "Werewolves of the Tears", which: not exactly. The French word for werewolf is loup-garou (pl. loups-garoux), loup being the word for wolf. Garou, on the other hand, is not the word for anything. (At least, not the French word for anything; I researched it once [me = tremendous dork] and found that it’s a Provençal word for a type of shrub. I don’t think that’s relevant in this context.) It appears that garou is an example of what linguists call a cranberry morpheme. If you can’t be arsed following that link, and you’re not Amy, I’ll tell you, briefly, that a cranberry morpheme is a unit of language that transmits meaning in a compound word but has no meaning on its own. Everyone knows that a cranberry is different from a blueberry or a strawberry, and that they are all berries, so "cran" transmits meaning in that it distinguishes one type of berry from another, yet divorced from its partner, "cran" is meaningless. Likewise, garou is meaningless outside of the compound loup-garou.
Just today I realized something that is doubtless coincidental yet utterly fascinating: the "were" of English "werewolf" is also a cranberry morpheme! How kooky is that? I realized this, by the way, while learning that the "were" in werewolf comes from an Indo-European root meaning "man" (hence "manwolf": makes total sense), which you can also see in the Latin cognate vir.
Cranberry morphemes are generally free to form other compounds, which is why we can have words like cranapple and wererabbit (though these are often hyphenated, which would seem to indicate that the neologists who invent them aren’t totally convinced that it’s kosher). I wondered if, in France, Wallace and Gromit had to deal with un lapin-garou, and heeeeeeeee: they did!
I love language.
September 6, 2006
June 30, 2006
This is the sportiest I will ever be.
I am not, generally speaking, a sports fan—most of the popular American sports just don’t hold any interest for me. I know baseball is the national pastime and all, but its languid pace has always seemed to me almost antithetical to the whole idea of sports. I mean, there’s more action in croquet. Plus all the gross spitting. Basketball strikes me as unchallenging, because everyone playing it is like eight feet tall. Shouldn’t they raise the baskets or something? Also their shorts are goofy. I do recall a time, somewhere in the eighties, when the New York Giants won some Super Bowls, and I was very aware of the whole thing and probably could even have identified some of the players, but when it comes to American football in general, I tend to find the level of violence disturbing. And I realize that I’m probably displaying a tremendous ignorance of the nuances and sublimity of these games, but I don’t care, because I? Am not a sports fan.
With a couple of exceptions. One of them is tennis, specifically women’s tennis, which I have been following for about twenty years now. My favorite player back then, and during the whole length of her brilliant career until her retirement, was Steffi Graf, who was one of the greatest ever to play the game (only Chris Evert and Martina Navratilova won more matches). A little later it was Jennifer Capriati during her comeback in the early aughts, as she disproved (to my great satisfaction) F. Scott Fitzgerald’s famous dictum that there are no second acts in American lives. Currently I root for Amélie Mauresmo for several reasons: 1) she’s the only out lesbian in professional tennis, 2) she’s French, et j’aime la France et les français, and 3) her game is gorgeous. She’s currently ranked the number one player in the world, but has a long history of choking at the major tournaments, finally winning the Australian Open this year when Justin Henin-Hardenne had to retire from the match. Said history only makes me root harder for her. As I write this she has advanced to the third round at Wimbledon, which began earlier this week.
Also going on right now, which you surely know unless you live under the biggest rock on the planet, is the World Cup, which brings us to my second exception: soccer, or football, as the rest of the world quite sensibly calls it. When the WUSA (the women’s professional league in the US) was extant, I enjoyed watching their games, and while I don’t always follow international football, I love the World Cup. Like a dutiful citizen I rooted for the US until they were eliminated, but now: allez les Bleus! See above re: j’aime la France. Tomorrow France plays Brazil in a rematch of the 1998 final, and I plan on busting out some vin de pays and fromage while I watch. All of this brings me to the title of this entry: as I am currently involved in watching not one but two major sporting events, this is doubtless the sportiest I have ever been or ever will be.
With a couple of exceptions. One of them is tennis, specifically women’s tennis, which I have been following for about twenty years now. My favorite player back then, and during the whole length of her brilliant career until her retirement, was Steffi Graf, who was one of the greatest ever to play the game (only Chris Evert and Martina Navratilova won more matches). A little later it was Jennifer Capriati during her comeback in the early aughts, as she disproved (to my great satisfaction) F. Scott Fitzgerald’s famous dictum that there are no second acts in American lives. Currently I root for Amélie Mauresmo for several reasons: 1) she’s the only out lesbian in professional tennis, 2) she’s French, et j’aime la France et les français, and 3) her game is gorgeous. She’s currently ranked the number one player in the world, but has a long history of choking at the major tournaments, finally winning the Australian Open this year when Justin Henin-Hardenne had to retire from the match. Said history only makes me root harder for her. As I write this she has advanced to the third round at Wimbledon, which began earlier this week.
Also going on right now, which you surely know unless you live under the biggest rock on the planet, is the World Cup, which brings us to my second exception: soccer, or football, as the rest of the world quite sensibly calls it. When the WUSA (the women’s professional league in the US) was extant, I enjoyed watching their games, and while I don’t always follow international football, I love the World Cup. Like a dutiful citizen I rooted for the US until they were eliminated, but now: allez les Bleus! See above re: j’aime la France. Tomorrow France plays Brazil in a rematch of the 1998 final, and I plan on busting out some vin de pays and fromage while I watch. All of this brings me to the title of this entry: as I am currently involved in watching not one but two major sporting events, this is doubtless the sportiest I have ever been or ever will be.
June 23, 2006
The Coolest Song in the World
"Can you honestly tell me you forgot? Forgot the magnetism of Robin Zander, and the charisma of Rick Nielsen? And what about the tunes? 'I want you to want me'…'The dream police, da-na-na-na-na-na-na!'." That may not be one of the more famous quotes from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, but it is one of my personal favorite bits: ticket scalper Mike Damone trying to pawn Cheap Trick tickets off on some poor girl*, complete with bad singing and spazzy air guitar. Fast Times is one of my favorite movies, and the character of Damone, the sleazy, Gremlin-driving, turned-up-collar-wearing, bad-dating-advice-giving "conceited little prick" (as Phoebe Cates's Linda Barrett terms him) is, in a word, awesome. So when I saw a poster last month advertising a show by a band called Damone, I immediately surmised that they must have named themselves after the Damone, and, based solely on that, further surmised that they must in fact be awesome as well.
Unfortunately I had to miss their Portland gig due to the fact that it was the same night that my band practices. (Priorities, people.) But man, am I sorry I did. I picked up their recently-released major-label debut, entitled O
ut Here All Night, and repeated listening, as well as viewing of live clips on YouTube, has amply proved that Damone the band is indeed awesome. One review I read summed them up as "Juliana Hatfield fronting Cheap Trick", which could be read as dismissive, but actually captures their appeal nicely, I think, as their sound mixes power pop, ‘70s hard rock, and ‘80s hair metal into a redolent rock ‘n’ roll stew that’s topped beautifully by singer/guitarist Noelle Leblanc’s sweet-but-tough snarl. Noelle is one of the better female rock singers I’ve heard recently, and she looks totally fucking cool, coming on like a grittier, less glam-rock Joan Jett, or maybe a metal-fied Chrissie Hynde. See the picture at right, which currently adorns my desktop as well.
If you’ve ever listened to Little Steven’s Underground Garage on the radio (and if you haven’t, it’s worth seeking out), you know that Steve always plays what he considers to be The Coolest Song in the World that week. I’m starting my own Coolest Song in the World feature (which assuredly will not be updated every week), and right now The Coolest Song in the World is the title track from Damone’s new record, "Out Here All Night". With Noelle’s dark-tinted vocal over a wicked Judas Priest-like riff and a hooky-but-haunting chorus, it’s three minutes of pure rock ‘n’ roll heaven. Check out the band’s MySpace page for a listen, and check out their website for other fun stuff.
*Actually, not just some poor girl—the character of Dina was played by Pamela Springsteen, sister of Bruce. I think she had a grand total of two lines, but that still beats the zero of Nicolas Cage in his first screen appearance.
Unfortunately I had to miss their Portland gig due to the fact that it was the same night that my band practices. (Priorities, people.) But man, am I sorry I did. I picked up their recently-released major-label debut, entitled O
ut Here All Night, and repeated listening, as well as viewing of live clips on YouTube, has amply proved that Damone the band is indeed awesome. One review I read summed them up as "Juliana Hatfield fronting Cheap Trick", which could be read as dismissive, but actually captures their appeal nicely, I think, as their sound mixes power pop, ‘70s hard rock, and ‘80s hair metal into a redolent rock ‘n’ roll stew that’s topped beautifully by singer/guitarist Noelle Leblanc’s sweet-but-tough snarl. Noelle is one of the better female rock singers I’ve heard recently, and she looks totally fucking cool, coming on like a grittier, less glam-rock Joan Jett, or maybe a metal-fied Chrissie Hynde. See the picture at right, which currently adorns my desktop as well.If you’ve ever listened to Little Steven’s Underground Garage on the radio (and if you haven’t, it’s worth seeking out), you know that Steve always plays what he considers to be The Coolest Song in the World that week. I’m starting my own Coolest Song in the World feature (which assuredly will not be updated every week), and right now The Coolest Song in the World is the title track from Damone’s new record, "Out Here All Night". With Noelle’s dark-tinted vocal over a wicked Judas Priest-like riff and a hooky-but-haunting chorus, it’s three minutes of pure rock ‘n’ roll heaven. Check out the band’s MySpace page for a listen, and check out their website for other fun stuff.
*Actually, not just some poor girl—the character of Dina was played by Pamela Springsteen, sister of Bruce. I think she had a grand total of two lines, but that still beats the zero of Nicolas Cage in his first screen appearance.
May 19, 2006
Oh right. I had sort of forgotten about this.
So anyway, I've been playing music with a couple of guys, a guitarist and a drummer, playing the guitarist's three-chord garage-type songs. I'm not sure whether it's going anywhere, but it's fun for now. My last band had really well-crafted songs that allowed me to write interesting, melodic basslines, but we didn't rock out all that much. This is pretty much the opposite.
Now, one thing you should know about me as a musician is that I play hard. I mean, I can play with finesse if the situation calls for it, but I'm happiest when I can bang the shit out of my instrument. Back when I played guitar, I broke like, three times as many strings as anyone else. As a bassist, it's the primary reason I play with a pick: you just can't pluck a string nearly as hard as you can slam it with a tortoiseshell extra heavy, like the ones I just bought.
So after practice last Tuesday, I was packing up my gear when I realized that my hand hurt. I looked at it and realized that, while I was playing, I had managed to remove a dime-sized patch of skin from the heel by repeatedly banging it against my low E string. Ow. And also, awesome. It's been a while since I rocked so hard that it literally hurt.
Now, one thing you should know about me as a musician is that I play hard. I mean, I can play with finesse if the situation calls for it, but I'm happiest when I can bang the shit out of my instrument. Back when I played guitar, I broke like, three times as many strings as anyone else. As a bassist, it's the primary reason I play with a pick: you just can't pluck a string nearly as hard as you can slam it with a tortoiseshell extra heavy, like the ones I just bought.
So after practice last Tuesday, I was packing up my gear when I realized that my hand hurt. I looked at it and realized that, while I was playing, I had managed to remove a dime-sized patch of skin from the heel by repeatedly banging it against my low E string. Ow. And also, awesome. It's been a while since I rocked so hard that it literally hurt.
December 22, 2005
entre chien et loup
Kirk has instructed me to update, so here I am. And! New town, new year (almost), new look, new name.
When I started this thing, "Elegant Disarray" was one of two titles I was considering. It comes from an old unfinished lyric of mine that went:
And she said, "O go away, leave me alone",
Her voice the sound of cracking bone.
Then through my eyes the new sun shone,
In the room where the books are thrown
Upon the floor in elegant disarray.
Still it rang through my head: "O go away".
Not my best, which is one reason I never finished the song, but I've always been rather pleased with the phrase "elegant disarray", and the phrasing of it in the song was cool too. Unfortunately, when I Googled it recently I saw that at least half a dozen others had turned the same phrase, and that's just since the advent of the internets. Ah, well. It's been at least a couple of millennia since the author of Ecclesiastes wrote that there was no new thing under the sun, and if it was true then it's certainly true now.
"Entre chien et loup", as I originally titled this blog, literally translates as "between dog and wolf", but figuratively it refers to dusk or twilight, which is my favorite time of day. The first post that I wrote, which I never published, began as a meditation on John William Waterhouse's painting of The Lady of Shalott, with its dusky mood, and moved into a discussion of why I love that hallowed interval between day and night. Maybe I'll try to recreate it sometime. Anyway, entre chien et loup remains my favorite French idiom (it's also the favorite of a French translator by the name of Céline Graciet--and can I just say how much it pleases me that, thanks to Richard Linklater, when I hear the name Céline I think not of a skeletal Québecoise chanteuse but of the ethereally lovely Julie Delpy, "the thinking man's femme fatale", as one writer described her, to which I must add, "and woman's" --and you can read her post about it here), but I think "Elegant Disarray" better sums up what goes on here.
Merry Christmas, everyone, and peace and happiness in the new year.
When I started this thing, "Elegant Disarray" was one of two titles I was considering. It comes from an old unfinished lyric of mine that went:
And she said, "O go away, leave me alone",
Her voice the sound of cracking bone.
Then through my eyes the new sun shone,
In the room where the books are thrown
Upon the floor in elegant disarray.
Still it rang through my head: "O go away".
Not my best, which is one reason I never finished the song, but I've always been rather pleased with the phrase "elegant disarray", and the phrasing of it in the song was cool too. Unfortunately, when I Googled it recently I saw that at least half a dozen others had turned the same phrase, and that's just since the advent of the internets. Ah, well. It's been at least a couple of millennia since the author of Ecclesiastes wrote that there was no new thing under the sun, and if it was true then it's certainly true now.
"Entre chien et loup", as I originally titled this blog, literally translates as "between dog and wolf", but figuratively it refers to dusk or twilight, which is my favorite time of day. The first post that I wrote, which I never published, began as a meditation on John William Waterhouse's painting of The Lady of Shalott, with its dusky mood, and moved into a discussion of why I love that hallowed interval between day and night. Maybe I'll try to recreate it sometime. Anyway, entre chien et loup remains my favorite French idiom (it's also the favorite of a French translator by the name of Céline Graciet--and can I just say how much it pleases me that, thanks to Richard Linklater, when I hear the name Céline I think not of a skeletal Québecoise chanteuse but of the ethereally lovely Julie Delpy, "the thinking man's femme fatale", as one writer described her, to which I must add, "and woman's" --and you can read her post about it here), but I think "Elegant Disarray" better sums up what goes on here.
Merry Christmas, everyone, and peace and happiness in the new year.
October 3, 2005
Ambery goodness!
Last week the third annual Southwest Gay and Lesbian Film Festival took place in Albuquerque and Santa Fe. It’s grown considerably since last year, which is great; unfortunately--probably necessarily--ticket prices have followed suit, which is not so great, since it meant that I had to seriously limit my viewing choices.
One choice was easily made, however: as I was flipping through the festival brochure, a still from one of the films caught my eye. Was that who I thought it was, head tilted backward, draining the dregs from a wine glass? Why yes indeed! It was none other than the lovely Amber Benson, and as I discovered from the caption, her movie Race You to the Bottom was playing on Sunday afternoon.
I must admit that I don’t keep up with Ms. Benson’s career to the degree that I used to, so I didn’t really know anything about the film. Considering the...um, less-than-stellar quality of most of her post-Buffy projects, however, I kept my expectations low.
I was pleasantly surprised, not least of all by the fact that Amber’s name was first in the opening credits. If you’re as unfamiliar with the movie as I was, it concerns a straight girl (Amber) and her bisexual male friend (played by an actor named Cole Williams, who I kept thinking was someone else, though who I can’t put my finger on). They both have steady boyfriends, and they are both messing around behind said boyfriends’ backs. With each other, of course. The film depicts a weekend trip from L.A. up to Wine Country, and it’s basically just a talky character piece (which genre, by the way, I happen to love) about their relationship, which is prickly to be sure. As Wine Country romantic comedies go, it’s definitely no Sideways, and as talky character pieces go it’s definitely no Before Sunset (my fave flick of 2004, incidentally), but it’s nonetheless a decently written, superbly acted, and clearly lovingly crafted little movie. (In addition to the acting, the cinematography is particularly noteworthy.) It was great to see Amber in something that, more than just not being total dreck, was actually worthy of her talents (I understand she won the Best Actress award at Outfest), and it was cool to see her in a role that is decidedly un-Tara-like (lots of profanity and dirty dialogue). It’s worth seeking out if you’re a fan.
On the other hand, and in related news, I watched the first 2 episodes of Alyson Hannigan’s new sitcom. And now I’m done with that. Yeeeeowch. It’s abominable. I mean, I hate traditional sitcoms in general, but this one has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Not even Aly’s incandescent presence (nor the welcome return of Freaks and Geeks alum Jason Segel) can lift it out of the litterbox. Better luck next time, Aly.
Oh, also in movie news: I recently rented the DVD of Rock School, a documentary about the Paul Green School of Rock Music in Philadelphia (upon which the Jack Black movie School of Rock was allegedly based). Paul and his band were active on the Philly scene at the same time I was. I’m not sure I agree with his teaching philosophy, but the doc is worth a look, if only for a glimpse of what is surely the world’s only gangsta rap outfit composed of Quakers. And if you do happen to see it, keep an eye out for a brief appearance by one of the former guitarists for my band--he’s the guitar teacher who’s not Paul.
Finally, and on a completely unrelated note, here's a funny article about the giant squid.
One choice was easily made, however: as I was flipping through the festival brochure, a still from one of the films caught my eye. Was that who I thought it was, head tilted backward, draining the dregs from a wine glass? Why yes indeed! It was none other than the lovely Amber Benson, and as I discovered from the caption, her movie Race You to the Bottom was playing on Sunday afternoon.
I must admit that I don’t keep up with Ms. Benson’s career to the degree that I used to, so I didn’t really know anything about the film. Considering the...um, less-than-stellar quality of most of her post-Buffy projects, however, I kept my expectations low.
I was pleasantly surprised, not least of all by the fact that Amber’s name was first in the opening credits. If you’re as unfamiliar with the movie as I was, it concerns a straight girl (Amber) and her bisexual male friend (played by an actor named Cole Williams, who I kept thinking was someone else, though who I can’t put my finger on). They both have steady boyfriends, and they are both messing around behind said boyfriends’ backs. With each other, of course. The film depicts a weekend trip from L.A. up to Wine Country, and it’s basically just a talky character piece (which genre, by the way, I happen to love) about their relationship, which is prickly to be sure. As Wine Country romantic comedies go, it’s definitely no Sideways, and as talky character pieces go it’s definitely no Before Sunset (my fave flick of 2004, incidentally), but it’s nonetheless a decently written, superbly acted, and clearly lovingly crafted little movie. (In addition to the acting, the cinematography is particularly noteworthy.) It was great to see Amber in something that, more than just not being total dreck, was actually worthy of her talents (I understand she won the Best Actress award at Outfest), and it was cool to see her in a role that is decidedly un-Tara-like (lots of profanity and dirty dialogue). It’s worth seeking out if you’re a fan.
On the other hand, and in related news, I watched the first 2 episodes of Alyson Hannigan’s new sitcom. And now I’m done with that. Yeeeeowch. It’s abominable. I mean, I hate traditional sitcoms in general, but this one has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Not even Aly’s incandescent presence (nor the welcome return of Freaks and Geeks alum Jason Segel) can lift it out of the litterbox. Better luck next time, Aly.
Oh, also in movie news: I recently rented the DVD of Rock School, a documentary about the Paul Green School of Rock Music in Philadelphia (upon which the Jack Black movie School of Rock was allegedly based). Paul and his band were active on the Philly scene at the same time I was. I’m not sure I agree with his teaching philosophy, but the doc is worth a look, if only for a glimpse of what is surely the world’s only gangsta rap outfit composed of Quakers. And if you do happen to see it, keep an eye out for a brief appearance by one of the former guitarists for my band--he’s the guitar teacher who’s not Paul.
Finally, and on a completely unrelated note, here's a funny article about the giant squid.
September 16, 2005
More sentences
Riffing off the last list, I made another one last night. This one is the Top 5 Opening Lines of My Favorite Literary Works. This is hardly an exhaustive accounting of my favorite books, of course, just the ones whose opening lines came into my head as I was making the list. I’m going to leave the attributions out and post them in a reply so you can have fun trying to identify them. Or, you know, not. But I would have fun doing that.
Top 5 Opening Lines of My Favorite Literary Works
A. “The primroses were over.”
B. “124 was spiteful.”
C. “Aujourd’hui, maman est morte.”
D. “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”
E. “Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, was literally run off her feet.”
And a special bonus line!
F. "'A week,' said Wren sadly."
Top 5 Opening Lines of My Favorite Literary Works
A. “The primroses were over.”
B. “124 was spiteful.”
C. “Aujourd’hui, maman est morte.”
D. “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”
E. “Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, was literally run off her feet.”
And a special bonus line!
F. "'A week,' said Wren sadly."
September 15, 2005
Sentences
The hurricane. A Bush-appointed Chief Justice. Carnage in Iraq, rioting in Northern Ireland. Not to mention my own crap. It hasn’t been a great couple of weeks.
I think about things to take my mind off of it. One of the things I like to think about is language…words, phrases, sentences. In the shower last night I put together my Top Five list of sentences remembered from books. The’re not in any order; they aren’t even necessarily my favorite lines, just ones that, for one reason or another, have stuck in my brain. Since they’re not actually ranked, how about I use letters instead of numbers? Seems only right.
Top 5 Sentences Remembered from Books
A. “The Motie was particularly interested in the various forms of human government.” Larry Niven, The Mote in God’s Eye. Pretty dull sentence, right? I’m actually annoyed that it’s in my head and that it pops up every now and then, but I supposed it’s my deserved punishment for lying. In sophomore English class, I told this kid that I had a photographic memory. Which I don’t, I just used to enjoy making stuff like that up. Sometimes if I was talking to someone I knew I’d never see again--on a train, for instance--I’d make up an entire life story, typically much more dramatic or adventurous than my actual one. Sometimes I’d use an English or Irish accent. Anyway, to challenge my supposed photographic memory, this kid asked me to memorize a sentence from the book he was reading. The deal was that he would demand, at some unspecified point in the future, that I recall it, and though I may not have a photographic memory, I do have a brain that weird shit gets stuck in. So, not only did I recall the sentence when he asked me to, I still remember it lo these many years later. Considering that it’s using up valuable cranial real estate, I think the joke was ultimately on me.
B. “Were this world an endless plain, and by sailing eastward we could forever reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise in the voyage. But in pursuit of those far mysteries we dream of, or in tormented chase of the demon phantom that, some time or other, swims before all human hearts; while chasing such over this round globe, they either lead us on in barren mazes, or midway leave us whelmed.” Herman Melville, Moby Dick. Okay, technically that’s two sentences. I guess Melville didn’t have an English teacher who told him that it’s “wrong” to begin a sentence with a conjunction. Anyway, this one I purposely committed to memory. Even though I tend to dismiss Moby Dick as 20 pages of an actual story coupled with 600 pages of a textbook for Cetacean Biology 101, Melville does knock out some killer stuff now and again. He shares my affinity for alliteration and taste for the poetic where the prosaic would get the job done as well (would you rather sail to the Solomon Islands or the Islands of King Solomon? For me the choice is clear). This particular passage struck me hard enough when I read it that I felt I should memorize it. It does sum up rather well the way I (unfortunately) tend to view life.
C. “The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.” James Joyce, Ulysses. Okay, technically that’s not even one sentence, since it lacks a predicate. Actually, seeing it out of context, you might think that “hung” is a verb, but it’s actually functioning as an adjective here. This bit comes toward the end of the book, when the omniscient narrator is asking questions and then answering them. As Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom step out of Leopold’s house into the Dublin night, the narrator asks, “What did they see?” and the answer is the phrase above. I had made my way through almost the entire novel, and become convinced along the way that Joyce had lost his considerable gifts for lyricism and grace, when I read that line, and it literally took the breath from my lungs. Knowing that Joyce could still write like that and was deliberately not doing so kind of sucked, but reading that one line made having read the other 900 pages worth it.
D. “Mr. Rainbird Clarke conjectures Pictish.” Hee. Though I can’t remember for the life of me who wrote it, this is my favorite sentence ever from a nonfiction book. I was taking a class called History of English, and was doing research on a paper about the influence of Celtic languages on early English, when I came across it in some musty tome. The author was discussing a stone that had been found in Scotland with an inscription in an unknown language, and what that language might be. “Rainbird,” “conjecture,” and “Pictish” are all awesome words, and I’d never seen them together before and probably never will again. It’s also perfect trochaic pentameter. Awesome.
E. “Strange young girls, dark as the moon, stared from mysterious verdant doorways.” Jack Kerouac, On the Road. This actually is one of my favorite lines, maybe my most favorite line, from a book. It’s so good that I won’t even say anything about it. I’ll just let you do with it what you will.
I think about things to take my mind off of it. One of the things I like to think about is language…words, phrases, sentences. In the shower last night I put together my Top Five list of sentences remembered from books. The’re not in any order; they aren’t even necessarily my favorite lines, just ones that, for one reason or another, have stuck in my brain. Since they’re not actually ranked, how about I use letters instead of numbers? Seems only right.
Top 5 Sentences Remembered from Books
A. “The Motie was particularly interested in the various forms of human government.” Larry Niven, The Mote in God’s Eye. Pretty dull sentence, right? I’m actually annoyed that it’s in my head and that it pops up every now and then, but I supposed it’s my deserved punishment for lying. In sophomore English class, I told this kid that I had a photographic memory. Which I don’t, I just used to enjoy making stuff like that up. Sometimes if I was talking to someone I knew I’d never see again--on a train, for instance--I’d make up an entire life story, typically much more dramatic or adventurous than my actual one. Sometimes I’d use an English or Irish accent. Anyway, to challenge my supposed photographic memory, this kid asked me to memorize a sentence from the book he was reading. The deal was that he would demand, at some unspecified point in the future, that I recall it, and though I may not have a photographic memory, I do have a brain that weird shit gets stuck in. So, not only did I recall the sentence when he asked me to, I still remember it lo these many years later. Considering that it’s using up valuable cranial real estate, I think the joke was ultimately on me.
B. “Were this world an endless plain, and by sailing eastward we could forever reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise in the voyage. But in pursuit of those far mysteries we dream of, or in tormented chase of the demon phantom that, some time or other, swims before all human hearts; while chasing such over this round globe, they either lead us on in barren mazes, or midway leave us whelmed.” Herman Melville, Moby Dick. Okay, technically that’s two sentences. I guess Melville didn’t have an English teacher who told him that it’s “wrong” to begin a sentence with a conjunction. Anyway, this one I purposely committed to memory. Even though I tend to dismiss Moby Dick as 20 pages of an actual story coupled with 600 pages of a textbook for Cetacean Biology 101, Melville does knock out some killer stuff now and again. He shares my affinity for alliteration and taste for the poetic where the prosaic would get the job done as well (would you rather sail to the Solomon Islands or the Islands of King Solomon? For me the choice is clear). This particular passage struck me hard enough when I read it that I felt I should memorize it. It does sum up rather well the way I (unfortunately) tend to view life.
C. “The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.” James Joyce, Ulysses. Okay, technically that’s not even one sentence, since it lacks a predicate. Actually, seeing it out of context, you might think that “hung” is a verb, but it’s actually functioning as an adjective here. This bit comes toward the end of the book, when the omniscient narrator is asking questions and then answering them. As Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom step out of Leopold’s house into the Dublin night, the narrator asks, “What did they see?” and the answer is the phrase above. I had made my way through almost the entire novel, and become convinced along the way that Joyce had lost his considerable gifts for lyricism and grace, when I read that line, and it literally took the breath from my lungs. Knowing that Joyce could still write like that and was deliberately not doing so kind of sucked, but reading that one line made having read the other 900 pages worth it.
D. “Mr. Rainbird Clarke conjectures Pictish.” Hee. Though I can’t remember for the life of me who wrote it, this is my favorite sentence ever from a nonfiction book. I was taking a class called History of English, and was doing research on a paper about the influence of Celtic languages on early English, when I came across it in some musty tome. The author was discussing a stone that had been found in Scotland with an inscription in an unknown language, and what that language might be. “Rainbird,” “conjecture,” and “Pictish” are all awesome words, and I’d never seen them together before and probably never will again. It’s also perfect trochaic pentameter. Awesome.
E. “Strange young girls, dark as the moon, stared from mysterious verdant doorways.” Jack Kerouac, On the Road. This actually is one of my favorite lines, maybe my most favorite line, from a book. It’s so good that I won’t even say anything about it. I’ll just let you do with it what you will.
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