Q & A

Sunlights in Cafeteria
Edward Hopper

대답하기 쉬운 것일 때는 왠만하면 물어보는 것이 어렵다. 물어보는 것이 쉬울 때는 왠만하면 대답하는 것이 어렵다. 쓸데없는 때를 제외하고 그 둘은 참 잘 같이가질 않는 것 같다는 것이 나의 관찰이다. 

What Is She Really Saying?

Summer Evening
Edward Hopper

No doesn't mean yes, but it doesn't mean no, either.

Lunch

Carolina Morning
Edward Hopper

나는 참으로 오랜만에 내가 먹고 싶은 것을 또렷이 인식하고 선택하여, 지형학적으로 주변에 있다고 할 수 있는 사람에게 의사를 물어 동의를 얻은 다음 오전 열한시 반이 채 되지도 않았을 적에 점심이라고 먹으러 나갔으니 이렇게 달음질을 하게 한 음식의 이름은 짬뽕이렷다.

식후 아주 만족스럽게 (은유적으로) 배를 쓰다듬으며 옆건물 커피빈에서 나눈 대화의 주제로는, 관리자와 실무자간의 관계, 지극히 주관적일수 밖에 없는 업무 평가, 마찰과 갈등과 대립을 포함한 대부분의 human interaction이 사실 얼마나 중독적인지, 그게 얼마나 웃기고도 사실 무서운지, 남녀 사이에 '좋은 사람'으로 남는 것이 얼마나 불가능한 일인지, 얼마나 웃기는 주객이 전도된 일들을 얼마나 평범한 얼굴로 매일같이 범하고 있는지, 등이 있다 . 

발가락에는 절대 빨간 매니큐어를 칠하지 않고 볼일이다. 

피아노를 치면서 음 하나하나를 소중하게 여길 줄 알게 된것은 아주 나중 일이었다. 책을 읽으면서 단어 하나하나를 눈여겨 볼 줄 알게 된 것도 아주 나중 일이었다. 살면서 매초 매분에 의미를 두게 되는 것은 아직 진행중이라고 본다. 사람들을 만나면서 한 사람 한 사람 각양각색의 진가를 알아보는 것에는 아직 갈길이 멀다. 

Our Sense of Time

Hotel Room
Edward Hopper

Ultimately, there is something odd about settling in somewhere new - about the perhaps laborious process of getting used to new surroundings and fitting in, a task we undertake almost for its own sake and with the definite intention of abandoning the place again as soon as it is accomplished, or shortly thereafter, and returning to our previous state. We insert that sort of thing into the mainstream of our lives as a kind of interruption or interlude, for the purpose of "recreation," which is to say: refreshing, revitalizing exercise of the organism, because it was in immediate danger of overindulging itself in the uninterrupted monotony of daily life, of languishing and growing indifferent. And what is the cause of the enervation and apathy that arise when the rules of life are not abrogated from time to time? It is not so much the physical and mental exhaustion and abrasion that come with the challenges of life (for these, in fact, simple rest would be the best medicine); the cause is, rather, something psychological, our very sense of time itself - which, if it flows with uninterrupted regularity, threatens to elude us and which is so closely related to and bound up with our sense of life that the one sense cannot be weakened without the second's experiencing pain and injury. A great many false ideas have been spread about the nature of boredom. It is generally believed that by filling time with things new and interesting, we can make it "pass," by which we mean "shorten" it; monotony and emptiness, however, are said to weigh down and hinder its passage. This is not true under all conditions. Emptiness and monotony may stretch a moment or even an hour and make it "boring," but they can likewise abbreviate and dissolve large, indeed the largest units of time, until they seem nothing at all. Conversely, rich and interesting events are capable of filling time, until hours, even days, are shortened and speed past on wings; whereas on a larger scale, interest lends the passage of time breadth, solidity, and weight, so that years rich in events pass much more slowly than do paltry, bare, featherweight years that are blown before the wind and are gone. What people call boredom is actually an abnormal compression of time cased by monotony - uninterrupted uniformity can shrink large spaces of time until the heart falters, terrified to death. When one day is like every other, then all days are like one, and perfect homogeneity would make the longest life seem very short, as if it had flown by in a twinkling. Habit arises when our sense of time falls asleep, or at least, grows dull; and if the years of youth are experienced slowly, while the later years of life hurtle past at an ever-increasing speed, it must be habit that causes it. We know full well that the insertion of new habits or the changing of old ones is the only way to preserve life, to renew our sense of time, to rejuvenate, intensify, and retard our experience of time - and thereby renew our sense of life itself. That is the reason for every change of scenery and air, for a trip to the shore: the experience of a variety of refreshing episodes. The first few days in a new place have a youthful swing to them, a kind of sturdy, long stride - that lasts for about six to eight days. Then, to the extent that we "settle in," the gradual shortening becomes noticeable. Whoever clings to life, or better, wants to cling to life, may realize to his horror that the days have begun to grow light again and are scurrying past; and the last week - of, let us say, four - is uncanny in its fleeting transience. To be sure, this refreshment of our sense of time extends beyond the interlude; its effect is noticeable again when we return to our daily routine. The first few days at home after a change of scene are likewise experienced in a new, broad, more youthful fashion - but only a very few, for we are quicker to grow accustomed to the old rules than to their abrogation. And if our sense of time has grown weary with age or was never all that strongly developed - a sign of an inborn lack of vitality - it very soon falls asleep again, and within twenty-four hours it is as if we were never gone and our journey were merely last night's dream.

- quoted from The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann (translated by John E. Woods)

런던도 무산되고 짤쯔부르크도 무산되었다. 좀 쓰리지만 자고 일어나면 괜찮을거다. 뭐 거기나 여기나. 시간은, 인생은, 어디서나 새로움, 익숙함, 습관, 단조로움, 지루함으로 내딛는다 쳐도 당최 내겐 만만한게 없다. 어쩌다 한번쯤 생기면 덧나나.

Das ist komisch

And it is this, I think, that makes Kafka's wit inaccessible to children whom our culture has trained to see jokes as entertainment and entertainment as reassurance. It's not that students don't "get" Kafka's humor as something you get - the same way we've taught them that a self is something you just have. No wonder they cannot appreciate the really central Kafka joke - that the horrific struggle to establish a human self results in a self whose humanity is inseparable from that horrific struggle. That our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home. It's hard to put into words up at the blackboard, believe me. You can tell them that maybe it's good they don't "get" Kafka. You can ask them to imagine his art as a kind of door. To envision us readers coming up and pounding on this door, pounding and pounding, not just wanting admission but needing it, we don't know what it is but we can feel it, this total desperation to enter, pounding and pushing and kicking, etc. That, finally, the door opens... and it opens outward: we've been inside what we wanted all along. Das ist komisch.

- David Foster Wallace, "Laughing With Kafka"

side effects from the past few disorderly days: my flesh aches, my mind too clear to remain sane.