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Hey Albinus, Poor Albinus
I finished reading Laughter in the Dark yesterday. Of all the things I felt about Albinus, ultimately I just felt bad for the guy. He was stupid, maybe like me—Maybe I’m going to end up like him. What a sad story, as you approach the end you crave for things to somehow turn around for him, some sort of relief from everything that happens; all his misfortune, whether he’s aware of them all or not. I suppose in many ways thats exactly what the conclusion accomplishes.
I love this novel for its simplicity and what Nabokov manages to employ, stylistically and poetically with very minimal interruption to what is already a very interesting story. Rex reminds me of Lolita’s Clare Quilty. And though one could compare Albinus to Humbert Humbert and Margot to Lolita, they evoke such different impressions in my mind, while Rex, though less mysterious than Quilty, gains throughout the span of the story the same ethereal quality I got from Quilty. Its weird because you’re told why he acts the way he acts but as the story goes on, Rex just fades into that pure idea of himself, becoming literally unknown. Albinus breaks your heart to watch or read (I guess); he’s so innocent even when he thinks he’s not or at those moments when his actions hurt others, its still coming from such a clumsy, goofy, stammering source that you somehow feel its accidental. I can’t bring myself to ever say he deserves what he got because poor Albinus thought he had things figured out, thought he understood his situation. Its like in My Cousin Vinnie, when the two guys get busted for murder but they think its for shoplifting, so they confess to their crime unaware of what they’re actually admitting, Albinus too, thinks he’s only just shoplifted and expects the penalty to match. The events and how they rolled out before him, were extraordinarily beyond Albinus’ capacity for management and endurance, he was so out of his element from jump—the end reflects this rather fairly and as a novel, satisfyingly.
During the first days she wept so much that she herself was surprised at the capacity of her lachrymal glands. Do scientists know how much salted water can flow from a person’s eyes? And that reminded her of how, one summer on the Italian coast, they had used to bathe the baby in a tub of sea water—oh, one might fill a far bigger tub with her tears, and wash a struggling giant.
-Vladimir Nabokov “Laughter in the Dark”
Dear iPod Classic,
Darling how I’ve missed you. How sick you’ve been these past few months. Deaf in fact, from one ear and only half-hearing my words that go to you like sun rays to the earth. How tired you look; how utterly dismissed of the energy that once puffed up your chest and made plump your cheeks when you smiled. Dark, lovely creature I hope they can fix you because nothing hurts more than having to repeat myself when talking to the wrong ear. Dark, beautiful organism; nothing hurts like when you drop my volume away, as a thing unnecessary, into the void of echoing silence.
!!!
Baz you’ve done it again, let’s pretend Australia never happened.
Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner-Dancer
I like my eyes closed. Dancing in the dark with the mysteries of the world, enjoying the rhythms and infinities of possibility. I like running as far as I can and slowing down only when there’s no choice but even then I prefer to rest as little as possible before getting back to the run. I don’t like seeing how I look while I’m dancing or running, because I’m sure it looks funny no matter what, even if I’m doing everything perfectly normal, there will always be a reason for me to judge or analyze it. The analysis slows me down, makes me stiff.
And yes, sure there are the occasions when you have to understand how to run or dance; correct errors and make conscious efforts to not stumble and break your foot, leg, or face due to irresponsibly ignoring your surroundings—but fear of breaking that foot, leg, or face shouldn’t have to make me slower than I ought to be. One shouldn’t have to stop because they get that fear, only to start over again. if anyone else knows how annoying it is to be interrupted while your body is running or dancing, I’m sure you can recall how awkward those first few steps are when you try to get back into it. Eventually you do get back into the rhythm and pace because you honestly enjoy it but if repeatedly, you’re stopped and told you should look at yourself because you were about to break your foot, leg, or face, even though that isn’t necessarily the case, it starts to make you unsure. I wish they had more faith in me.
The Daily YOLO
When I die, I want to be reincarnated as a mudskipper, YOLO.
