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I want my final book to be entitled "My Present to the Present World." Not that I will ever write any books in the first place. I was worried about getting the timing right, so that it would be the last thing I ever wrote--it's so hard to schedule things around one's own death when one has no intention of dying purposefully--but I guess it can always be "found" by someone and published posthumously. Of course, if it is published posthumously, that would make the title a bit ironic. Which in turn makes me like it all the more. (I'm such a sucker for subtleties in irony.)

Of course, the more I think about it (考えれば考えるほど), the more I realize it won't happen. I'd have to start writing it now--who's to say I won't die tomorrow?--and I'm just so bad at working well in advance. Oh, well. It was a nice thought, at least.


I have a story idea going around in my head. I told Kelsye about it last night as we were stuffing ourselves with Turkish food. I've started getting story ideas again. Good ones. Weird ones. Ones that will be vessels for what I really want to say. It was good to explain it to Kelsye because she gave me new perspective on my ideas. It's a story of romancing oneself, of bridging the barrier between body and mind.

The only problem is that I'm not at a place yet where I can express myself adequately in writing. I have the idea, I have the basic concept, but I don't even know where or how to start crafting this story.

I can't believe I'm actually thinking about writing fiction again....

The concept of something being "fiction" is so ridiculous. Just as the idea of "non-fiction" is. It's all the same--it's just that fiction ostensibly has an underlying point. ^_~


I'm borrowing The Story of O from Kelsye. I'm really excited about reading it. Books with brown covers are so much more interesting, regardless of what's inside....

I read part of Josephine when I was about 13 or 14 and although I spent the whole time thinking, "What else could possibly be dirtier than this?! How could Sade possibly top the perversion in this scene?!" (note: I had no sexual imagination at the time--actually, I still don't, but at least I'm more educated now), looking back, I find it to be lacking in terms of how introspective it is. It's just plain jane porn. There's nothing artistic about it, really. The characters are shallow and their respective dynamic is weak. It's been 10 years since I've read it, and I'd probably feel differently if I picked up a copy and went through it again--better yet, if I went out and read it in French--but this is just a quick retrospective, a faded lasting impression. Venus in Furs had the opposite problem, actually (how ironic!!!)--but I read Sacher-Masoch's opus only 2 years ago, so it's fresher in mind than Josephine is. It was heavy on character interaction, but disappointing in terms of its sexual exploration. (Plus, fur doesn't really get me going, I'm afraid, so I couldn't relate to the protagonist on that point.)


John L-M sent me this link: English porn textbook. It's so weird, it can't be true. And the Japanese is really strange, so it has to be some joke. Right?

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