A lot of tripartite sentences

I'm sorry not to be the digital correspondent I once was. It doesn't mean I've vanished off the face of the earth; instead, I think I'm spending more time reading and less time writing. There is a lot to read—and think—about. Lately this includes transportation issues, trainy and bicycular; various work-related concerns; a whole boatload of library books I want to read before their due dates (I recommend Teju Cole's Open City for an interesting, if not particularly fast-paced, read, at least for the 160 pages I have encountered so far; ditto for Andre Aciman's Call Me By Your Name; for a bit of a breather, there's always wacky Jasper Fforde and Thursday Next), and am I ever going to catch up with that backlog of restaurants I want to try. It's hard to tell whether to cram in some more proofreading, catch another chapter or two of Open City, or trawl Metafilter for some more answers I didn't know I needed. Or maybe just turn in for the night so I can wake up sufficiently early to get some muesli from Peels or a honey espresso drink at Jack. Sometimes, at moments like these, I think, as I rarely do otherwise, of something I was told in philosophy class. So many parts of life are constantly in flux (am I ever going to get back out on my bike? have I quit caffeine for real after those pounding headaches? will I ever stay up past midnight on a weeknight again?). Oh well. At least I can say that books, food, and trains provide some consistency.

Still no bloggy. But click on this if you are interested in a thought-provoking read. (I am not an expert in the area of bottled water, but would generally say I agree with the author of the post.)

Also, it's SoHo, folks. Or is it? Are midword capitals going the way of the dinoSaur? Ack.

Poll

What would you call the neighborhood in NYC that is immediately below Houston Street? This is likely an obvious answer, but I am curious about one thing so if you'd write in a reply I'd be much obliged.

In your philosophy

What is the purpose of writing and reading? You might well wonder that as you contemplate whether to continue writing a blog. It's an unavoidable question, too, when you have decided at last to tackle Infinite Jest, full of impossible length, fronted by Dave Eggers's introductory assertion that reading it will make you a better person. And you'll ask it some more when you get about 60 pages in and lose heart--the characters seem soulless, the words an exercise in form; you feel you are secretly not intellectual enough to even read this stuff, let alone craft some words of your own.

Luckily, fortuitously, there's Zadie Smith, whose Changing My Mind's been providing you with a little light reading (har, har) in counterpoint to IJ. And damned if her last essay isn't an exploration of the very author whose book you have been struggling with, and damned if that essay doesn't make you see his work in a more comprehensible light. Which is lucky for you, because you have grown to suspect that reading is fundamentally an act of comprehension. Reading, you feel like you have to get at the very marrow of every sentence, to not only parse the words so they scan but also find the deep philosophical reasonance of it all. Not so with music--your feet tread deliberately on the ice, in rhythm to "Karen"--you realize you love these songs despite? because? you cannot understand a damn word their singer croons. But books, yes, you want to understand.

And Smith helps you do that, explains some ways of looking at the work (even though she is not talking about IJ in particular but Brief Interviews with Hideous Men). Wallace, she suggests, was not doing what came naturally to him when he wrote fiction, his mind more philosophical, mathematical. His sentences are propositions to unpack, thought experiments to put yourself through. Seeing with new words means seeing a new world. This way of reading's not primarily intended to be fun (though there's humor there); it's work. But through that work you grow to understand others a little better, and maybe yourself. Smith says--and I'd pull the quote for you if I had the book here--that Wallace's stories don't so much interview the hideous men as they interrogate us. What does it mean if we let our own minds course the circuit of the depressive woman's thoughts, understand the disorientation of the skeptic, realize that our ability to analyze ourselves to death doesn't absolve us? Who exactly are we anyway?

And so I realize that Wallace's words aren't characterless and heartless. To read them as I usually read a novel is to do them a disservice. I keep on tackling each set piece, unpack the propositions. I'm trying to learn what it is to be an addict, to envision a tennis that is pure mind, to recognize the benefits of the past in the onslaught of technology. It's overwhelming--if I cruise along at my usual slapdash pace I miss the nuance and fail to really put myself into the situations; if I read too slow I lose the overarching sense of structure, how tightly everything packs together despite its sprawling frame. But I'm trying.

This may not fully explain what I want to say. I started to entertain these ideas last week walking home from the laundromat. I felt I needed to instantly patterpattertype up all these infinitely precious thoughts--for the adoring public--before doing anything else. And then I drew up short at the solipsism of that. The arrogance. Is self-expression so important that you should blow off folding the laundry or calling your grandmother or taking a shower and heed your creative voice? Is your need for attention so great that you must immediately broadcast your half-baked Deep Thoughts for all the world (all your three and a half blog readers) to see? An idea of Wallace's that Smith alludes to, and that I will probably not do justice to here, is that a meaningful act of writing involves showing love not receiving it. Instead of writing to get something--pick me! like me!--your words should confer a gift to the reader. With this in mind, I suspect I will write more thoughtfully less frequently here, trying to only bring you gifts.

Take the fifth

Since I'm feeling a bit burned out from work, I'm going to take a (temporary?) break from my regular posting schedule, and post only when I feel like I have something to say. Today is not really that day, except that the trees look full of cherry blossoms but then you remember it's ice and you haven't seen the ground in more than a month and it is better weather to curl up with a book but go into work but go you must, a la Godot. Perhaps the end of this weather is in sight, though...

WD-50

I think I could make a habit out one truly decadent meal a year. Last year there was Chez Panisse; this year there's WD-50. In the haphazard way of the internet, I first read about the place from Nico Muhly's music blog, rather than Serious Eats or something like that (much like I've learned about books from Vanishing New York or musicals from Infrastructurist lately). This year, already overwhelmed by the material riches of Hanukkah (thanks for the bike, Mom and Dad!) I wanted a more intangible birthday gift so I suggested we go to WD-50...

Where we arrived yesterday at 6, the start of the evening. I have said it before about Chez Panisse and I'll say it here about WD-50: when you go to a fancy restaurant, you worry that they'll judge you. (My sister, half-joking, bowed out of this one, saying she thought she wasn't cool enough for them.) Luckily, just like the staff at Chez Panisse, the people at WD-50 are friendly and accommodating. The place itself is pretty laid-back and minimalist in decor--like a trendy diner, as my mom said. The bartender enticed us to have some water ("nice! ice-fresh! water!") while we waited for the table to be ready; the waitstaff described the components of our meals in a way that was informative and not at all condescending.

And what components they were! There are more technical words ("molecular gastronomy," anyone?) but I will just say here that everything at WD-50 looks like one thing but tastes like something else. Like my mom's appetizer of shrimp noodles, which look like noodles but are in fact composed of shrimp. Or the tasty dehydrated bayleaf cake that came with my dad's monkfish entree. And then there are the signature eggs--funny little dense delicious yolks, wisp-thin crispy Canadian bacon, and Hollandaise sauce in little crispy cubes which melt when you open them. My entree, pork loin, was somewhat less exciting to look at but still pretty tasty; I liked the paprika spaetzle and the crispy greens (I think they were chard) that visually resembled nothing so much as the little flags on cocktail toothpicks. My mom's cod was covered in nori, giving it a cryptic aspect; underneath lurked the cod and a delicious coconut peasoup type broth. It is the broths and sauces that really stood out; flavors that I wouldn't expect to love (celery mayonnaise!) were remarkable. Also worth noting is that the food was surprisingly filling; we'd joked about making a run to Katz's, but that was definitely unnecessary.

Food consumed, we were on to dessert, also a feast for the stomach and the eyes. My aerated coffee ice cream was dotted with two textures of chocolate, crunchy pecans, and argan oil foam (who knew?). I am not normally a grapefruit fan but my dad's grapefruit curd struck just the right texture and sour-sweet note. My mom's milk chocolate cream came with malted milk ball halves that were airy and flavorful like nothing you have ever tried. And, while we were working on all these riches, a waiter came up quietly bearing a lit candle. "You have to make a wish," he said, "so I can tell you what it is." I duly did, and then he explained that the top of the candleholder is made out of some kind of coconut sorbet--which tasted hot and cold and light all at the same time--the bottom, a mousse.

I appreciated the discretion as well as the deliciousness of the moment--if you've ever witnessed a cowbelling birthday at Cowgirl Hall of Fame, another delicious favorite restaurant of mine, you've probably grown a bit wary of spectacle. And all the service was discreet and courteous in this way, with several of the staff asking how we'd enjoyed our meal. At the end, one of the waiters came up at the end of the evening and complimented my boots (thanks for the replacement pair, C.--!). He asked if that day was my birthday and I explained it was actually on Monday. His was on Tuesday; we exchanged birthday wishes and then I went home, wafting on a wave of complimentary rice krispy treat (meringue ice cream coated in rice krispy--probably my favorite part of the whole meal).

Papertown writer

For some reason, I didn't read John Green's Paper Towns for a long time, despite really enjoying his two previous novels. Somehow I got it into my head to try it now, and I'm glad I did. I can't remember the last time I found a story so enjoyable and moving. Quentin, the main character, is an immensely-likeable high school senior, and his quest to locate his neighbor Margo is a hybrid of detective story and soul searching.

The book is quick-moving and absorbing. I saved it for an epic trip to the laundromat, and for a Friday-night ride on the Boltbus. Caught up in the epic road trip near-finale, I almost believed my slowcrawling southbound bus was an overcrowded minivan speeding from Florida to upstate New York.

I talked to J.-- recently about how satisfying young adult fiction can be because of how easy it is to get swept up in the plot. But in this case, it's not only the plot that's moving but also the characters. It's refreshing to find a group of individuals that are are so easy to relate to, at least for me. (Donna Leon's Brunetti and Sheila Heti's Ticknor, two recent acquaintances, are great in their own way but not too much like me. Neither are the schoolgirls in Joshua Gaylord's Hummingbirds, though I am very familiar with their setting.) They think about literature, listen to the Mountain Goats, and make terrible jokes to one another. Quentin's narrative voice is thoughtful and funny and worried in an all-too-easy-to-sympathize-with way. What's not to ilke?

In short, I'd recommend Paper Towns to anyone who wants a quick, fun, yet genuinely emotionally affecting read. Now, onto Infinite Jest...