he is right, but I couldn't convince myself the freedom was better than the miserable desire for nicotine. lovely, sickening nicotine.
which makes Car...morehe is right, but I couldn't convince myself the freedom was better than the miserable desire for nicotine. lovely, sickening nicotine.
which makes Carr's book one of the more annoying I ever made it through. I can see how a revelation would occur if he were standing in front of me, talking like that. My brain conjured images of silent cartoon/vaudeville movies with the evil bad little demon looking contrite and nodding, yes yr right yes yr right. & then a halo appears! "YIPPEE!" (A Direct Quote.) Mr. Carr looks pleased and sanctified, for he has SAAAAVED ANOTHER SSSSSSSMOKING SSSSSSSSINNER. He jots down some notes, "check," "check," "check," tweaks the halo, and runs off to another sorry filthy stinking chump with smokestacks coming out his ears. The halo starts to burn. YOW! Damn me.
So now I am looking for a recommendation for a hypnotherapist in the Greater New Orleans Area. For real.
I have never been more hyper in my life before this last round of quitting. So obscenely hyper I swallowed a giant burrito whole, didn't get drunk from an entire bottle of wine (or hung over), talked 199 mph, and forgot the stupidest littlest things that could have meant certain doom and disaster, and my usual obsessive concentration on the thrills of tediums and details flitted away like a pissy tinkerbell. BACK TO EARTH, EARTH PALS. Needing to read that book in a hurry was probably a bad idea- it was on short loan- and really, it is hard to convince me that a smoke tastes bad or that nicotine is so horrible. I don't like beer but wouldn't even try to convince a beer lover how shitty it tastes. I love stinky cheese but do not long for the days before I thought stinky cheese was the bees knees. "You did not follow my Instructions, Miss," Mr. Carr might scold. "You must go back and read them again. You must really BELIEVE. If you do not BELIEVE, then OZ does not exist."
It is a fact: cigarettes are disgusting. So? Now what. I have shit to do............. pissed off that I gave in....... didn't have a cent to my name when I quit, thinking that would do the trick. NO! Sorry fans of Allen Carr, but if I don't read it again- try try try try again again again-- I'll quit one way or another. A regime.... hypnotism, acupuncture. Soon as I can afford & also find the real deal. (No gestalts, por favor, I'm not going to a vet for flea medication only to be informed that if I don't also get heartworm meds, my claws pulled, my leukemias annihilated, my ears clipped, my third ovary tied to my neck, etc. that I will never ever truly be rid of fleas.)
adding insult to "ha ha" tag, I QUIT I QUIT I did quit smokes. I did not quit nicotine, tho I feel that the day I feel that I don't need to "get to work" which I guess my friends know the meaning of, is the day I can scratch the gum. So far, I am very pleased. And now I do understand what Mr. Carr meant by.... "YIPPEE!" if you can pronounce that in a subconscious whisper, as you cannot force someone who cannot be convinced by bludgeon that cigarettes, hand rolled tobacco cigarettes, taste awful and feel worse. You, smoker, have to determine this sense of liberation by your own regard. You will realize in spite of contradictory evidence, the giddy effervescence of liberation from smoke-in-the-lungs. This happens through trickery, determination, despair, and a religious fervor. How you direct it in the long run is up to you and your original nature. Once quit, you cannot determine whether or not you shall be a conquistador of anti-smoking or that delightful ex-smoker who relishes that odor forevermore, happily recalling the joan crawford moments while relishing the guillotine "nevermore" finality of not smoking.
the next trick is the weaning... from.... nicotines... and I ask... you... not Mr. Carr.... what is so bad about it now? (besides the expense & the taste. what is your drug? I could have it all ways--- )
This lady is succinct. I like these stories in their abbreviated, warped charm. They are what they are. I don't understand people who grade writing th...moreThis lady is succinct. I like these stories in their abbreviated, warped charm. They are what they are. I don't understand people who grade writing this old and enduring. Reading the one selection in old french was interesting, too, since it's half english and reads like Chaucer, which makes it more peculiar. It belongs to a certain time, that's all. Nobody should be looking for love advice from Marie de France, but she comes across as a most practical woman and the stories are worth taking in.(less)
Until the very last section, which I though was a little nauseating for being too self-conscio...moreI did it! I read a book.
This one is like the stars say.
Until the very last section, which I though was a little nauseating for being too self-consciously gertrude steinite. I think it's supposed to be humorous. There's more of that in the first part of the book but I was game for it so long as she didn't dwell on it. & then the rest of it.. beautiful.(less)
My first Dickens.... dicky dicky dicky.... I liked it....
I had been raised to loathe anything "dickeny," because that christmas tale gives me nausea.....moreMy first Dickens.... dicky dicky dicky.... I liked it....
I had been raised to loathe anything "dickeny," because that christmas tale gives me nausea... not for my yiddishness, but on my very own sentiment.... and the costumes in tv movies meant to move us to sentimental old worldishness are revolting... HOW BIG CAN YOUR SIDEBURNS GROW, SON. & WHAT IS THAT BILLYGOAT FLOORSCRAPER BENEATH YR CHIN. Dickensian facial apparati in the modern male is hard to behold, but I've come around to some forms of it... depending on the person and their nature, a great leap in my struggle to overcome my prejudices.
Good, I can start reading more classicky Dickensies.
Dickens was George Herriman's inspiration...
and until I picked it up for some reason my mind had it set that Tale of Two Cities was a science fiction thriller, and boy was I not inclined to mess with it... the things you think you know & somehow don't bother thinking about, from when you are a kid. I must have mixed it up with another bad facial hair/colorful velvet dinner jacket/wood panelled smoking room movie.(less)
this book is not what you think. several people I've brought this book up to insist it is fiction. NO! It is not fiction! It must be read. Th...morealakazam!
this book is not what you think. several people I've brought this book up to insist it is fiction. NO! It is not fiction! It must be read. The cover is ugly, and belies the original excitement of such a volume-- the permanent sideshow/flea circus on times square begrudgingly managed by a black man who with his wife performs in african savage mask as the sideshow to the archetypal Collector, the "bookdealer" who comes into possession of the remains of said sideshow that first came into possession of another kind of junk dealer, Nigerian Royalty of the fleamarkets, via a storage facility auction... this is a sad story, and the side story is that the archetypal collector realizes that some of the odds and ends are photographs taken by Diane Arbus while she worked there, or worked the denizens there, on her Guggenheim grant... and the saga of the intertwining obsessions of the persons involved, etc etc...
kind of sensationalist in a way that does not need be, to start with, but the story gets rolling and the end is kind of unnecessary so it doesn't matter at all that it is anticlimactic-- the meat is tasty and totally fascinating. (less)
**spoiler alert** reminds me that "literature" isn't just about telling a story. HI LIT! that is. A highly structured, meticulously arranged maze, jus...more**spoiler alert** reminds me that "literature" isn't just about telling a story. HI LIT! that is. A highly structured, meticulously arranged maze, just like old-style plays with Portent 'round every corner. Sweeeet. Iris Murdoch is refined in this style, tho it is the first book of hers I've ever picked up. She could be bawdy & grotesque like Muriel Spark... but sticks to classic happy follow-along and guess by foreshadowing the bumbling land that is theoretical closed universe of Imber. Psychodrama! Or: what to read when the 19th c. gets to dragging, brilliant histories overwhelm & the computer screen turns your vision into blue blobs.
P.S. This book contains the word "ha-ha" not as a delightful reference to Bosse de Nage, the baboon sage of Dr. Faustroll. or like: "...And I'll declare He's mooning up some landscap'd alley where A ha ha lurks ahead. All unaware He won't, until he's tumbled, know it's there." -Piron also from Dr. Faustroll. So I will look up this proper "ha-ha," as used in The Bell. "Then we've just started to cultivate a piece of pastureland beyond the ha-ha."
well, my grandpa's old oed is a nice thing to have around, sometimes. Ha-ha: [... 'an obstacle interrupting one's way sharply and disagreeably, a ditch behind an opening in a wall at the bottom of an alley or walk'; according to French etymologists from ha! exclamation of surprise. ] A boundary to a garden, pleasure-ground, or park, of such a kind as not to interrupt the view from within, and not to be seen till closely approached; consisting of a trench, the inner side of which is perpendicular and faced with stone, the outer sloping and turfed; a sunk fence.
A ha-ha might be used in context of streets of New Orleans.
8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 yah so I finished it almost in the wee hours of yesterday morning, and then today while dropping off after two hours of lawn-mowing. Oh, it's a package. "thusly." they, the characters, are transformed, and we get in on the gossip... I think Iris Murdoch will be my serial reading refuge, for lack of, while I wrestle grudgingly with things I'm Supposed to Be Learning, such as The Anatomy of Melancholy, substituting with novella form of The Big Questions that Can be Divined by Having Read About Such Literary Devices since Novels Were first Introduced in a School Setting.(less)
One of Blaze Starr's pearls of wisdom, for the ladies: the best way to keep your beauty as you age is to sleep on your back- never, never sleep with y...moreOne of Blaze Starr's pearls of wisdom, for the ladies: the best way to keep your beauty as you age is to sleep on your back- never, never sleep with your face in the pillow. She must have had an ass of steel. But god bless Blaze Starr, no modern dame can strut like her. Besides that, modern dames are pipsqueaks, and there is no more Earl Long, even if I did get a simpering post-mortem email from "the last of the red hot poppas" urging me to "vote for anyone but Jindal," which I very much resented.