Tuesday, November 14, 2006

those days

The oldies are creeping up my skin. Right now, The Beatles are doing their thing. Sir Paul McCartney and George Harrison are chanting their ticket to ride, but we don' care! Yeah. What's happening to me? Hehe. I'd love to hear Buble cover When I saw Her Standing There and Twist and Shout.

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The other night I finished the tedious read of D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers, which was published in 1913. The writer is British and the some dialogues are hard to digest especially when it came to the father's character. The novel was touted to be controversial during Lawrence's days considering its sensitive topic - the bond between mother and son and how it eventually affected - ruined - the son's life and ability to love. It's also the story of the battle of sexual powers of both the mother and father in their struggle for the children's arrogation.

I immediately picked up Jonathan Harr's A Civil Action, which is so long overdue. I bought it December last year but I can't seem to succumb to reading due to its thickness, but I made considerable progress already.

No comments:

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting