Lightning Strikes the Tiger's Eye

Once again, my sensibilities decided to betray me and collude with the merry-making that seems to have pervaded the frosty air. For the record, the weather today is one of stale freshness. A description of the immediate physical reality is in order. Just as the elephant vanished with the prophetic diary last week, winter arrived in the City unabated and unabashed. It's been snowing leopards and pandas (okay, this note is definitely inspired by animals). Snowflakes beautifully dancing down from the sky, packing rough Manhattan streets with snow jackets, as if to safeguard its charm. The veneer, while delicate, is pervasive at the same time.

And now on to the two subjects of this post: The Elephant Vanishes and Diary.

First, 'The Elephant Vanishes': a collection of short stories by Haruki Murakami. This is the second book by Murakami that I picked up (the first one was "Dance, Dance, Dance" - absolutely delightful). I have to say there is a certain, surreal appeal about his prose that kept me hooked to The Elephant Vanishes. My favorite stories are "Lederhosen" and "On Seeing The 100 Percent Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning." (the month of April has its own significance in my life as far as perfect girls go). With a wild and vivid imagination, Murakami's universe is mysterious and secretive. Even though the characters, on the outside, are fairly quotidian, they conceal a remarkable underlying complexity, which is developed and partially deconstructed as the story proceeds.

Second, 'Diary' by Chuck Palahniuk. Written in second person, in the cold, cutting and unforgiving voice of Misty Wilmot, this book reminded me very much of Martin Amis' Money: A Suicide Note in terms of style. The subject though, is completely different. If you've read Palahniuk's 'The Fight Club' and dumbfounded by its brilliance, you've got to check 'Diary' out. The setup: Misty Wilmot, once a promising young artist, is now an alcoholic, serving customers at their tables in a restaurant. As if life wasn't miserable enough, her husband is in a coma after a failed suicide attempt. Here's a quote from the book's cover:

"... Suddenly, Misty's artistic talent returns. Inspired but confused by a burst of creativity, she soon finds herself a pawn in a larger conspiracy that threatens to cost hundreds of lives. What unfolds is a dark, hilarious story from America's most inventive nihilist, ..."

But this book is much more than a sardonic tale. It proposes, in my opinion, the hypothesis that a beautiful work of art often has its inspiration in suffering. That pain facilitates creative fertility .

One of my favorite quotes from the book 'What you don't understand, you can make mean anything.' One random passage (not my favorite, but comes to mind right now):

This was Peter's theory of self-expression. The paradox of being a professional artist. How we spend our lives trying to express ourselves well, but we have nothing to tell. We want creativity to be a system of cause and effect. Results. Marketable product. We want dedication and discipline to equal recognition and reward. We get on our art school treadmill, our graduate program for a master's in fine arts, and practice, practice, practice. With all our excellent skills, we have nothing special to document. According to Peter, nothing pisses us off more than when some strung-out drug addict, a lazy bum, or a slobbering pervert creates a masterpiece. As if by acccident.