Ceci n'est pas un update.
Mar. 2nd, 2006 03:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
featherynscaleSome days, it's not worth chewing through the leather straps.
I'm reading Umberto Eco's The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana. It's about an elderly dealer in rare books who has had a stroke, and can't remember anything about his life. He does have memories about things he's read, though, which makes it more interesting -- when he first gains consciousness in the book, they ask him his name and he tells them "My name is Arthur Gordon Pym", and so on. He doesn't recognize his wife, his grandchildren. He thinks he might have been having an affair with his assistant. He doesn't know who he can ask what questions. It's captivating stuff.
He doesn't know what his politics are, or even what he likes to eat. His wife tells him that he can go to the local restaraunts and ask for his usual, since he's apparently well-known in the neighborhood. For some reason this bit pings on me. What if you were this fellow, and you ordered what you usually did, and then found you didn't like it? What if your preferences and habits were formed based on context and memory, and not on the thing that you have the preference for. I suspect that we are this way, that we often like things because we associate them with something that feels positive to us. Without that context, would "the usual" be any good? Lacking the reinforcement of the memory of other times you liked something, would you choose to like it again? I don't know. The entire question horrifies me in some vague way.
Of course, I suppose if I were in this gentleman's place, I would be somewhat better off. I do, after all, journal, at least after a fashion. I could look here, or in the other places where I write, and see something. But what would I see? I often choose not to write about things that are important, to record instead things that amuse me. The picture would be skewed. I would, however, know a lot about what I dreamed. I suppose that's something.
So then, I think I'd ask you. What was I like? What did I enjoy? What did we talk about? What did we do together? And you, would you tell me the truth, if I needed to know? Or would you make up more interesting stories? Because I know what I would do, if the situation were reversed.
I'm reading Umberto Eco's The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana. It's about an elderly dealer in rare books who has had a stroke, and can't remember anything about his life. He does have memories about things he's read, though, which makes it more interesting -- when he first gains consciousness in the book, they ask him his name and he tells them "My name is Arthur Gordon Pym", and so on. He doesn't recognize his wife, his grandchildren. He thinks he might have been having an affair with his assistant. He doesn't know who he can ask what questions. It's captivating stuff.
He doesn't know what his politics are, or even what he likes to eat. His wife tells him that he can go to the local restaraunts and ask for his usual, since he's apparently well-known in the neighborhood. For some reason this bit pings on me. What if you were this fellow, and you ordered what you usually did, and then found you didn't like it? What if your preferences and habits were formed based on context and memory, and not on the thing that you have the preference for. I suspect that we are this way, that we often like things because we associate them with something that feels positive to us. Without that context, would "the usual" be any good? Lacking the reinforcement of the memory of other times you liked something, would you choose to like it again? I don't know. The entire question horrifies me in some vague way.
Of course, I suppose if I were in this gentleman's place, I would be somewhat better off. I do, after all, journal, at least after a fashion. I could look here, or in the other places where I write, and see something. But what would I see? I often choose not to write about things that are important, to record instead things that amuse me. The picture would be skewed. I would, however, know a lot about what I dreamed. I suppose that's something.
So then, I think I'd ask you. What was I like? What did I enjoy? What did we talk about? What did we do together? And you, would you tell me the truth, if I needed to know? Or would you make up more interesting stories? Because I know what I would do, if the situation were reversed.
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Date: 2006-03-02 10:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-02 10:25 pm (UTC)Or not.
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Date: 2006-03-02 10:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-02 10:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-03 12:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-03 01:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-03 02:22 am (UTC)That's what the "delete" button is for
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Date: 2006-03-02 10:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-02 10:27 pm (UTC)Actually, at several points in this book, I've thought that you might enjoy reading it as well.
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Date: 2006-03-02 11:18 pm (UTC)Maybe once I've finished with Mr. Potter and Sai Roland of Gilead.
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Date: 2006-03-02 10:22 pm (UTC)LOL!
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Date: 2006-03-02 10:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-02 11:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-02 11:30 pm (UTC)Or at least it wouldn't get caught by net nanny. 8-)
It's what I thought, and the designs I recall were from a period pavillion step-by-step which gave variant instructions for using your tent hardware for "other things" between wars. I think they had it so that it could spin too.
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Date: 2006-03-02 10:25 pm (UTC)'Scuse me, now I gotta go think for a while...
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Date: 2006-03-02 10:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-03 03:36 am (UTC)Wait.
Um.
*plots*
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Date: 2006-03-03 04:07 pm (UTC)