Yes, we have sunshine and smiles and rainbow-coloured ponies over here in South Africa, but we also have things that make me want to rant like a... well, like a blogger who's putting off a lot of marking!
1 - World Cup propaganda. Endless soppy TV ads and cheesy billboards encouraging us to refrain from stoning foreign tourists; and reminding us that because some people kick a ball around, we're all homies and this country is incredibly amazing. I can't wait for the World Cup to be over, so we can all go back to being grumpy pessimists.
2 - Malema rage. Yes, he's an idiot. Yes, he's offensive. But every time you react to him, HE WINS. His personal and political agenda is to get as much attention as possible. I'd like to see the energy everyone puts into creating drama around this man be redirected into something constructive. Like throwing shoes at him. Or stuffing his pillows with something he's allergic to. Or just pushing him over so that he falls down.
3 - The new little TV's on buses. I guess this springs from the first point - wow, SA's so great! Sure, a bus may only come by once every four hours or so, and you're lucky if it's roadworthy, but look, it's got a tiny TV in the front! The thing is, the only thing they play is this creepy computer-animated kid's show about a rabbit who lives in some sort of communist fruit-based economy. I guess that's the only way to punish people for taking buses without infringing on their human rights.
Aah, it feels good to fulfill my hater-quota for the day.
Sunday, April 11
Monday, April 5
White Noise: 310 pages of my life I'm never getting back
White Noise
by Don DeLillo is doublepluspostmodern, and not in a good way.
The whole book is about this dude, Jack (why are 75% of all protagonists named Jack?) who's an annoying college professor, insufferable poser, babydaddy, and a guy who generally has too much time on his hands to ponder... wait for it... DEATH.
(DEATH is like so scary, that's why we have to write it in BIG LETTERS.)
Now, DEATH is hardly an overwritten subject, especially in postmodernism's heyday, right? But DeLillo brings it to a whole new level of Oh My God, My Eyes Are Bleeding badness. Basically, good ol' Jack can't stop thinking about DEATH because it's the only thing that freaks him out in his comfy consumer culture.
Poor Jack, DEATH upsets him. Don't you feel sorry for him and can totally relate to his character? No? You'd rather just chuck a portable DVD player at his head? Wow, me too! We should hang out.
DeLillo's description of the overly media-saturated world was probably a big whoop in the eighties, but writing "Leaded, Unleaded, Superleaded" in the middle of a love scene between Jack and his legwarmer-clad wife strikes me as less deep and meaningful and more 'I need three more words for this chapter or my publisher will yell at me again.'
I'm pretty sure that this book got on the Honours reading list, and into academic acclaim in general, through a very clever the-king-has-no-clothes approach: the individual fakes awe and a deep understanding of the book because that's what the collective is expressing. Nobody wants to be the idiot who says he didn't get it.
And after three hundred or so pages of Jack whingeing about DEATH, I was sincerely hoping he'd fall into a giant meat grinder and... wait for it... DIE! But the freakin' dude just keeps on trucking. Yes, it's postmodern. It's also a shitty ending.
The only good thing about this book is that (despite that fact that I found it really, really lame) I get it, so I'm going to write an essay on it this week and not have any more American Lit work until the exams.
Next week we're starting on Black Boy
, by Richard Wright. I'll probably write more about it once I've finished it, but let me say now that it's fantastic. One of the best books I've ever read; I can't wait for classes to start so I can gush about it to a begrudging audience of eight.
The only thing is that it's pretty depressing, and brings me to tears almost as much as the first season of Glee
. I don't know why I start crying when perfectly good-sounding people break into show tunes. Maybe because it makes me ponder the ceaseless void of DEATH.
by Don DeLillo is doublepluspostmodern, and not in a good way.The whole book is about this dude, Jack (why are 75% of all protagonists named Jack?) who's an annoying college professor, insufferable poser, babydaddy, and a guy who generally has too much time on his hands to ponder... wait for it... DEATH.
(DEATH is like so scary, that's why we have to write it in BIG LETTERS.)
Now, DEATH is hardly an overwritten subject, especially in postmodernism's heyday, right? But DeLillo brings it to a whole new level of Oh My God, My Eyes Are Bleeding badness. Basically, good ol' Jack can't stop thinking about DEATH because it's the only thing that freaks him out in his comfy consumer culture.
Poor Jack, DEATH upsets him. Don't you feel sorry for him and can totally relate to his character? No? You'd rather just chuck a portable DVD player at his head? Wow, me too! We should hang out.
DeLillo's description of the overly media-saturated world was probably a big whoop in the eighties, but writing "Leaded, Unleaded, Superleaded" in the middle of a love scene between Jack and his legwarmer-clad wife strikes me as less deep and meaningful and more 'I need three more words for this chapter or my publisher will yell at me again.'
I'm pretty sure that this book got on the Honours reading list, and into academic acclaim in general, through a very clever the-king-has-no-clothes approach: the individual fakes awe and a deep understanding of the book because that's what the collective is expressing. Nobody wants to be the idiot who says he didn't get it.
And after three hundred or so pages of Jack whingeing about DEATH, I was sincerely hoping he'd fall into a giant meat grinder and... wait for it... DIE! But the freakin' dude just keeps on trucking. Yes, it's postmodern. It's also a shitty ending.
The only good thing about this book is that (despite that fact that I found it really, really lame) I get it, so I'm going to write an essay on it this week and not have any more American Lit work until the exams.
Next week we're starting on Black Boy
, by Richard Wright. I'll probably write more about it once I've finished it, but let me say now that it's fantastic. One of the best books I've ever read; I can't wait for classes to start so I can gush about it to a begrudging audience of eight.The only thing is that it's pretty depressing, and brings me to tears almost as much as the first season of Glee
. I don't know why I start crying when perfectly good-sounding people break into show tunes. Maybe because it makes me ponder the ceaseless void of DEATH.
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