THE ART OF SOLITUDE

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The most important skill nobody taught you

Before dying at the age of 39, Blaise Pascal made huge contributions to both physics and mathematics, notably in fluids, geometry, and probability.

This work, however, would influence more than just the realm of the natural sciences. Many fields that we now classify under the heading of social science did, in fact, also grow out of the foundation he helped lay.

Interestingly enough, much of this was done in his teen years, with some of it coming in his twenties. As an adult, inspired by a religious experience, he actually started to move towards philosophy and theology.

Right before his death, he was hashing out fragments of private thoughts that would later be released as a collection by the name of Pensées.

While the book is mostly a mathematician's case for choosing a life of faith and belief, the more curious thing about it is its clear and lucid ruminations on what it means to be human. It's a blueprint of our psychology long before psychology was deemed a formal discipline.

There is enough thought-provoking material in it to quote, and it attacks human nature from a variety of different angles, but one of its most famous thoughts aptly sums up the core of his argument:

"All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone."

According to Pascal, we fear the silence of existence, we dread boredom and instead choose aimless distraction, and we can't help but run from the problems of our emotions into the false comforts of the mind.

The issue at the root, essentially, is that we never learn the art of solitude.

The perils of being connected

Today, more than ever, Pascal's message rings true. If there is one word to describe the progress made in the last 100 years, it's connectedness.

Information technologies have dominated our cultural direction. From the telephone to the radio to the TV to the internet, we have found ways to bring us all closer together, enabling constant worldly access.

I can sit in my office in Canada and transport myself to practically anywhere I want through Skype. I can be on the other side of the world and still know what is going on at home with a quick browse.

I don't think I need to highlight the benefits of all this. But the downsides are also beginning to show. Beyond the current talk about privacy and data collection, there is perhaps an even more detrimental side-effect here.

We now live in a world where we're connected to everything except ourselves.

If Pascal's observation about our inability to sit quietly in a room by ourselves is true of the human condition in general, then the issue has certainly been augmented by an order of magnitude due to the options available today.

The logic is, of course, seductive. Why be alone when you never have to?

Well, the answer is that never being alone is not the same thing as never feeling alone. Worse yet, the less comfortable you are with solitude, the more likely it is that you won't know yourself. And then, you'll spend even more time avoiding it to focus elsewhere. In the process, you'll become addicted to the same technologies that were meant to set you free.

Just because we can use the noise of the world to block out the discomfort of dealing with ourselves doesn't mean that this discomfort goes away.

Almost everybody thinks of themselves as self-aware. They think they know how they feel and what they want and what their problems are. But the truth is that very few people really do. And those that do will be the first to tell how fickle self-awareness is and how much alone time it takes to get there.

In today's world, people can go their whole lives without truly digging beyond the surface-level masks they wear; in fact, many do.

We are increasingly out of touch with who we are, and that's a problem.

Boredom as a mode of stimulation

If we take it back to the fundamentals—and this is something Pascal touches on, too—our aversion to solitude is really an aversion to boredom.

At its core, it's not necessarily that we are addicted to a TV set because there is something uniquely satisfying about it, just like we are not addicted to most stimulants because the benefits outweigh the downsides. Rather, what we are really addicted to is a state of not-being-bored.

Almost anything else that controls our life in an unhealthy way finds its root in our realization that we dread the nothingness of nothing. We can't imagine just being rather than doing. And therefore, we look for entertainment, we seek company, and if those fail, we chase even higher highs.

We ignore the fact that never facing this nothingness is the same as never facing ourselves. And never facing ourselves is why we feel lonely and anxious in spite of being so intimately connected to everything else around us.

Fortunately, there is a solution. The only way to avoid being ruined by this fear—like any fear—is to face it. It's to let the boredom take you where it wants so you can deal with whatever it is that is really going on with your sense of self. That's when you'll hear yourself think, and that's when you'll learn to engage the parts of you that are masked by distraction.

The beauty of this is that, once you cross that initial barrier, you realize that being alone isn't so bad. Boredom can provide its own stimulation.

When you surround yourself with moments of solitude and stillness, you become intimately familiar with your environment in a way that forced stimulation doesn't allow. The world becomes richer, the layers start to peel back, and you see things for what they really are, in all their wholeness, in all their contradictions, and in all their unfamiliarity.

You learn that there are other things you are capable of paying attention to than just what makes the most noise on the surface. Just because a quiet room doesn't scream with excitement like the idea of immersing yourself in a movie or a TV show doesn't mean that there isn't depth to explore there.

Sometimes, the direction that this solitude leads you in can be unpleasant, especially when it comes to introspection—your thoughts and your feelings, your doubts and your hopes—but in the long-term, it's far more pleasant than running away from it all without even realizing that you are.

Embracing boredom allows you to discover novelty in things you didn't know were novel; it's like being an unconditioned child seeing the world for the first time. It also resolves the majority of internal conflicts.

The takeaway

The more the world advances, the more stimulation it will provide as an incentive for us to get outside of our own mind to engage with it.

While Pascal's generalization that a lack of comfort with solitude is the root of all our problems may be an exaggeration, it's isn't an entirely unmerited one.

Everything that has done so much to connect us has simultaneously isolated us. We are so busy being distracted that we are forgetting to tend to ourselves, which is consequently making us feel more and more alone.

Interestingly, the main culprit isn't our obsession with any particular worldly stimulation. It's the fear of nothingness—our addiction to a state of not-being-bored. We have an instinctive aversion to simply being.

Without realizing the value of solitude, we are overlooking the fact that, once the fear of boredom is faced, it can actually provide its own stimulation. And the only way to face it is to make time, whether every day or every week, to just sit—with our thoughts, our feelings, with a moment of stillness.

The oldest philosophical wisdom in the world has one piece of advice for us: know yourself. And there is a good reason why that is.

Without knowing ourselves, it's almost impossible to find a healthy way to interact with the world around us. Without taking time to figure it out, we don't have a foundation to built the rest of our lives on.

Being alone and connecting inwardly is a skill nobody ever teaches us. That's ironic because it's more important than most of the ones they do.

Solitude may not be the solution to everything, but it certainly is a start.

"The People v. Amarige" - Prosecution & Defense

17-21 minutes

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The People v. Amarige – Case # 13-92745B
The Bailiff: “Oyez, Oyez, the Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Charles Highblossom presiding. On the docket, The People v. Amarige, Case # 13-92745B. The charge is olfactory assault and battery. State your name and business before the Court.”
[A small, balding man rises]: “I am the District Attorney, Luke Sneering.”
[A tiny, dark woman rises]: “I am the Public Defender, Grace Hopeless-Causes, representing the Defendant, Amarige de Givenchy.” [She points to the table where Amarige sits. She is enveloped in the most luxurious white furs, drips gleaming diamonds, and wears the largest, frothiest hat this side of a royal wedding. The defendant’s chin is raised defiantly, her eyes staring straight ahead, but she nervously fingers her diamond choker.]
[The white-wigged judge bangs his gavel]: “The Prosecution may proceed.”
THE PROSECUTION:
[The D.A., Mr. Sneering]: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. We are here to convict Amarige, from the house of Givenchy, with being the most heinous perfume in the world. Countless have fallen prey to her horrors. You will hear testimony from asthmatics whom we will wheel in from the Intensive Care Unit where they landed after a mere whiff of her olfactory napalm. You will hear of her ubiquity in the 1990s, assaulting you from every magazine perfume strip, invading your home through your mailbox, until there was no escape. You will hear from Luca Turin, the perfume expert, on how she is “truly loathsome,” a perfume he rated one-star, and which he hates the most in all the world. And, in the end, you will do the right thing: you will convict her of assault and battery, even though what we really should be charging her with are crimes against humanity!
Let us start at the beginning. Amarige was let loose upon the unsuspecting public in 1991, a fruity-floral Frankenstein created by the legendary nose, Dominique Ropion, who really should have known better! Her parts, according to Fragrantica, consist of:

top notes are composed of fresh fruit: peach, plum, orange, mandarin, with the sweetness of rose wood and neroli. The floral bouquet, very intense and luscious, is created of mimosa, neroli, tuberose, gardenia and acacia with a gourmand hint of black currant. The warm woody base is composed of musk, sandalwood, vanilla, amber, Tonka bean and cedar.

In those long-ago days, as the perfume blogger The Non-Blonde states so well, there was no escape from her fumed tentacles. You didn’t have to buy it to wear it.

[You] didn’t have to: you could go into a public building, a friend’s home or get on a bus and emerge with your hair and clothes smelling of it. Amarige was so recognizable and obvious that even I, lover of assertive perfumes, couldn’t deal with it. Not to mention the fact that it’s so very peachy you could feel the juice dribble on your chin.

The Non-Blonde may have had a baffling change of heart on Amarige, but she was right when she said that “women who maintain the old habit of marinating themselves in Amarige should have their noses and sanity examined.” (Frankly, I think the Non-Blonde should have her sanity examined for her sudden appreciation of Amarige. No, time does not heal all olfactory wounds!)
I said at the start that what we should be charging Amarige with are crimes against humanity. The world agrees with me. I present as witnesses, some posters from Basenotes.
[The court security guards wheel in the witnesses that they have ferried over from the Intensive Care Unit. From their gurneys, they feebly lift their heads to take the vow to ‘tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,’ so help them God. And then they testify.]

• Tuberose’s reputation has been damaged almost irrepairably by this most horrid affair. If I were her I would sue.
• Truly, truly awful. Radiates out to the orbit of Neptune. Causes asthma, retching and a stampede for the exit. Frightens children and pets, ruins dinner-parties, restaurant meals and plane journeys. Could be used to eradicate vermin from silos and warehouses. [..] Please people, stop buying this hideous juice so Givenchy will stop making it. It’s an abomination, a crime against humanity. I can’t understand why any woman would want to smell like this, or why her significant other would want to smell it on her. A chemical disaster of Chernobyl proportions.
• this Perfume is a migraine in a bottle. […] The absolute worst fragrance I’ve ever smelled.
• I own a bottle of it due to my initial attraction to its smell in small quantities. Wearing it, I feel nauseous and completely unable to eat anything. I tried to scrub it off in the shower but it won’t die. I haven’t eaten anything all day. I think this toxic odor could be useful as a diet aid.
• Horrible, HORRIBLE soapy smell broadcasting out to the planet at gigawatt levels. I made the mistake of spraying this onto my wrist and I thought I’d never be able to remove it. This smell made me feel nauseous and headachey.

The final witness comes from Fragrantica:

If I had to describe this perfume in one word it would be ‘haunting’ because it’s unpleasant and, like the eerie warnings written in blood on the walls, impossible to scrub off.

‘Blood on the walls.’ Blood on the walls, people! The eerie warnings come, in part, from tuberose, one of the most indolic flowers around. What is an idole, you ask? I draw your attention to Exhibit 3, the Glossary of perfume terms. It is something found naturally in many heady, white flowers — like tuberose. In excessive amounts, it can lead to a feel of extreme full-blown, over-ripeness. In cases of fragrances like Amarige, it can turn to an aroma of sourness, even cat litter feces, plastic flowers, urine,  garbage heaps of rotting fruit, or all of the above. At best, Amarige is a fetid, rotting stinker that will turn from over-blown flowers to pure sourness and cat urine. At worst, it will choke up your airways, prevent all breathing and render you utterly unconscious. All in just 2 small whiffs.
You don’t believe me, I can see it in your eyes. Well, we shall prove it to you. Guards! Bring in the testers!”
[The guards set up two, tiny canisters at each end of the room. The jury shifts in their chairs nervously. A cordon of security blocks the doors. The District Attorney dramatically puts on a giant gas mask, akin to those used by soldiers in the first Persian Gulf War when there were fears of Saddam Hussein using chemical warfare — or Amarige — against American troops. Mr. Sneering points to the guards and nods.
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.  
Three small whiffs of scent are released from each of the two canisters. White flower after white flower suddenly fills the room. They flit here, they flit there. They are omnipresent. There is a smell of orange, orange blossom, more orange blossom, and still more. It spreads its powerful molecules around the room like a carpet unfurling a wave. Little spectres of happy yellow mimosa flowers dance along the orange carpet. There is a shadow of some silken amber rising up, peeking its eyes above the wave of orange. Peach makes an appearance, adding to the orange haze filling the room and cocooning the white ghosts of tuberose and gardenia. The powerful ghosts dance merrily up to the District Attorney and punch him in his gas-masked nose. He falls back, but rises with a glare.
There is an audible gasp. A woman in the far back of the visitor’s gallery clutches her throat and gasps for air. Juror #4 faints completely. Jurors #6 and #9 have a look of rapt enchantment and glazed joy on their faces, much to the disgust of the District Attorney who sneers at them. In her seat, Amarige smiles faintly. With an almost imperceptible flick of her dainty chin, she tells the ever-growing, large white ghosts of tuberose and gardenia to move near Juror #5 who told of her upcoming wedding in Voir Dire. They move and the Juror suddenly sits up straighter in her chair, dreams of her wedding day and of Amarige trailing behind her in a billowing cloud of white.
The Jury Foreman has been watching these proceedings with unease. When Juror # 2 keels over beside him, begging for medical help and saying she is dying, he starts to back away. Quietly, he inches towards the door and then flees outright, only to head straight into a wall of security. The gas-masked police officers grimly shake their heads. He looks at them pleading. “I can’t take it any more. Get me out of here,” he whispers. “It’s in my nose, it’s burning my skin. There is so much fruit all of a sudden. I’m surrounded by peaches and a whiff of plum. It’s cloying, synthetic and artificial. And it’s covering every inch of me, like fruited animals devouring my skin. I need a shower. Please, have mercy.” They sympathetically shake their heads again and drag him, kicking and screaming, back to his chair.
The Judge has had enough of these theatrics. He orders medical attention for the gasping or collapsed bodies, lying crumpled like rag dolls throughout the room. He orders all the windows opened and the room to be fumigated before the court will reconvene the next day. He contemplates also ordering psychiatric evaluations for those jurors who had beatific, hypnotized, enraptured smiles on their faces, but decides he cannot seem biased.
The next day, the court reconvenes and the District Attorney resumes his case.]
“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise for subjecting you yesterday to the horrors of Amarige. But, I had to give you the chance to decide for yourself. The People’s case will conclude with our expert, Mr. Luca Turin, the most famous perfume critic in the world. Before you is Exhibit 4, an excerpt from his book with Tania Sanchez, Perfumes: the A-Z Guide. Note the categorization of Amarige as ‘Killer tuberose.’ Killer. Not extreme but ‘killer.’ The one-star review reads as follows:

We nearly gave it four stars: the soapy-green tobacco-tuberose accord Dominique Ropion designed for Amarige is unmissable, unmistakeable, and unforgettable. However, it is also truly loathsome, perceptible even at parts-per-billion levels, and at all times incompatible with others’ enjoyment of food, music, sex, and travel. If you are reading this because it is your darling fragrance, please wear it at home exclusively, and tape the windows shut.

Ladies and gentlemen, the People rest their case.”
THE DEFENSE:
[The Public Defender, Grace Hopeless-Causes, rises and speaks]: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am here for one reason and one reason only. To represent the shamed, silent, closeted minority of women who adore Amarige and feel she has been most unjustly accused of crimes against perfumery! She has been vilified for far too long and it’s time for the Amarige lovers to defend her!
The weight and power of Luca Turin’s reputation has added the final, unjust nail in Amarige’s coffin. It is not tuberose who should sue Amarige, but Amarige who should sue Luca Turin for defamatory libel!
Don’t believe the District Attorney. He has presented only one, very slanted, side to the story. Did you note how he had only one witness from Fragrantica? Why is that, do you think? I’ll tell you why: because that was the sole, truly harsh review of Amarige. He didn’t tell you of all the others which spoke of the joy, the happy, dancing aura of Amarige, the image of beautiful wedding days, or posts writing of “sumptuous” finishes, of “sophistication” and “class.” There is no mention of how it is addictive, of how you can’t stop sniffing your wrists, of how intensely feminine it can make you feel.
And there is not a word about how it can drive men wild.
No, the District Attorney has presented a very lopsided, distorted picture of Amarige. Even when he quotes Luca Turin, he leaves out the words of his co-author, Tania Sanchez, who wrote in that same book:

Amarige is a genius work of perfumery, utterly recognizable, memorable, technically polished and spectacularly loud.

The D.A. quickly brushed over how they wanted to give it four stars. FOUR. And there is not a peep out of him over the fact that the very book he quotes as expert opinion actually lists Amarige in their top 10 BEST list at the back! It is in their 10 Best Loud Perfumes list, next to the 5-star Fracas, 5-star Angel, and the 5-star Lolita Lempicka perfumes. Strange for a perfume that Mr. Sneering and Luca Turin would have you believe is a crime against perfume humanity, no?
Yes, Amarige is loud and a diva. Yes, one big squirt can blow your head off. But no-one ever said you should bathe in it, for heaven’s sake! Plus, don’t let the opening blast fool you. Amarige has average sillage and longevity. After the first ten minutes, it can fade to a much tamer level. If you don’t believe me, read Fragrantica, Basenotes or MakeupAlley, and see similar comments for yourself.
To all those who have had asthmatic attacks as a result of encounters with Amarige, I apologise. She apologises. Truly. But the same thing could happen from Lolita Lempicka, Angel or a whole host of perfumes. Why have they not been brought up on charges? Why does Luca Turin adore and worship the brilliance of Angel — a scent which many have compared to toxic nerve gas — but not the admittedly “genius,” “technically polished” masterpiece of Amarige? And, in all cases, isn’t it the fault of the wearers who spray on too much? Blaming Amarige for medical injuries triggered by over-use is akin to blaming a car manufacturer for accidents that may arise from someone texting while driving.
Where we concede and confess fully is the charge that Amarige is a diva. Yes. Yes, she is. Amarige is Maria Callas, the legendary opera singer, taking center stage under the bright white lights, and showered with diamonds by billionaires like Aristotle Onassis who loved her more than he ever did Jackie O. Amarige is not meant to be a simpering, quiet wallflower, sitting in the corner, awaiting a man to ask her to dance. She will push her way to the center of the floor and dance by herself, mesmerizing a room — public opinion be damned!
As for the charge that she is a cloying monster with some potentially synthetic undertones, we plead the Fifth. Even if true, and we are not saying that it is, many other perfumes are too. And, yet, do you see them in this courtroom? Speaking only for myself, I do not find Amarige to be synthetic. I think she is exactly what Givenchy and Dominique Ropion meant for her to be. As Fragrantica explains:

The name of the perfume ‘Amarige‘ is an anagram of the French word ‘Mariage.’ That is why this fragrance is as intensive as a strong feeling, merry, juicy and unforgettable as a moment of happy mariage. It is so opulent and floral that it seems like its composition includes all the beautiful flowers that exist in the world.
The Amarige woman is graceful, playful and charming, a real French woman in love. She radiates joy and gives a happy smile.

Maria Callas in “Tosca.”

Despite her opulence and diva status, Amarige can be a cheap date. You can find a 1 oz bottle on Kohl‘s for $50 or on Sephora for $49. A 1.6 oz bottle costs $67 on Sephora, and much less on eBay. Compare those prices to more reputable white floral or tuberose scents: Robert Piguet‘s Fracas starts at $95; while Frederic Malle‘s Carnal Flower starts at $230 at Barneys.
Whatever she is, I realise this is the most hopeless of all lost causes. Amarige’s reputation has been destroyed beyond all measure. I can sit here and talk to you about her lovely white femininity, her peach exuberance, that dry-down of spice and amber, and it will make no difference at all. There is simply no hope of restoring her good name.
But I make this plea to you, ladies and gentlement of the jury: do not let the perfume world’s easy, facile dismissal of Amarige influence you. They are not objective and they have followed Luca Turin like sheep. After all, they proudly admit their love for Fracas, another white flowers explosion that make people gasp for air.
Admittedly, Fracas is a much more elegant creature than the brazen hussy, Amarige. And, yes, hard as it is to believe, Fracas almost seems like almost a quiet, shy child in comparison. But are they really so different as to warrant Fracas’s triumphant twirl in the spotlight as a cult favorite and legend, while Amarige wilts in the wilds of guilty obscurity? Again, Fracas may be of slightly better quality and there is not a hint of anything synthetic about it. But it too is an over-blown indolic scent that can turn sour or lead to thoughts of rotting fruit. Amarige is more fruity than Fracas, true, but there is luscious peach, orange and amber in Hermès‘ sophisticated 24 Faubourg, after all.
Unlike 24 Faubourg’s sophisticated woman, however, Amarige is like a happy child, all yellow, orange and white dancing flowers, full of exuberance and femininity. It is not a scent for those who like discreet, quiet, unobtrusive fragrances. It’s not for those who can’t stand heady, narcotically powerful ones, either. And it is most definitely not for those who can’t bear white flowers.
But if you love Amarige, I beg of you: do not go quietly into that good night, hiding your face in shame and covering your scarlet letter, that “A” which marks you as an A-marige lover. Rise up and defend her name. Admit your folly and sins. Admit she is glorious. Don’t wear her only in the privacy of your own room with the windows duct-taped shut. And find her not guilty of crimes against perfumery!”
[The Public Defender sits down and the jury leaves for its deliberations. There is no word from them for three days. Then, finally, they return.]
THE VERDICT:
Hung jury.

[Nine jurors wanted to convict.

Three held out, utterly in love, and on their way to buy a bottle for themselves.]

Statia de metrou Politehnica

   Statia de metrou Politehnica a fost data in folosinta in 1983 si este pavata cu placi mari de marmura si granit ce contin fosile de acum 180 de milioane de ani. Mai precis, oamenii care coboara la Politehnica au sansa sa calce pe ramasitele unor vietuitoare care traiau pe Pamant atunci cand tot ce vedeai in zare era apa. Desi poate parea ca totul a fost planuit dinainte de catre constructori, adevarul este ca ei s-au grabit sa termine totul la timp si au extras materialul din Muntii Apuseni interesandu-se doar de...culoare! Bucurestenii calca, din 1983 si pana azi, pe un ocean pietrificat din Cretacic...si punem pariu ca cei mai multi nici nu stiu...

Church Signs ..

 

Baby Boomers Reach the End of Their To-Do List

5-7 minutes

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Life, if you’re lucky, is divided into thirds, my father used to say: youth, middle age and “You look good.” The dawn of that third stage is glinting right at me.
It isn’t simply that at this point more life is behind me — behind any middle-aged person — than lies ahead. Middle-aged? Who am I kidding? Who do you know who’s 144?
It’s not just about aging. By the time you’ve worked long enough, hard enough, real life begins to reveal itself as something other than effort, other than accomplishment. Real life wishes to be left to its own purposeless devices.
This isn’t sloth. It isn’t even exhaustion. It’s a late-arriving awareness of consciousness existing for its own sake.

The to-do list that runs most lives through middle age turns out, in this latter stage of existence, to have only one task: to waste life in order to find it. Who said that? Or something like that. Jesus? Buddha? Bob Dylan? Somebody who knew what’s what.
Mine was the first year of the notorious American baby boom, 1946. The year three of our recent presidents were born: Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Donald Trump. “You’re a boomer!” we were always told, as if we were named for the bomb, that midcentury annihilator.
We got all the good stuff.
The postwar hope and determination of our Depression-era parents was piled upon us, the fossil fuel of earlier generations we burned up without a care. We had a preposterously long sense of our own youthfulness.
But now the boomers are approaching the other side. Not death necessarily (though the time has begun when no one will say we were cut down too early). We’re reaching the other side of striving.
“You should try meditating or maybe yoga — yoga’s good,” someone said when I mentioned my fevered to-do lists, the sometimes alarming blood pressure readings, the dark-night-of-the-soul insomnia.

But meditating is just another thing. Yoga? Another task, another item for the to-do list.
This battle between striving and serenity may be distinctly American. The struggle between toil and the dream of ease is an American birthright, the way a Frenchman expects to have decent wine at a reasonable price, and the whole month of August on vacation.
Maybe it goes all the way back to the Declaration of Independence, our founding document. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. How proud I’ve always been, through the years of protesting, the radical this and progressive that of my 1960s generation, to think of those words.
That unlikely word — happiness — made me proud to be an American, not just for my own sake, but that everyone was enjoined to find a personal project of delight. Of course happiness is an illusion. Still, I’ll pledge allegiance to it.
But happiness is the only word in the Declaration of Independence triad that doesn’t stand alone. Happiness is not, like life and liberty, a given. Happiness in the American credo is a job. It must be pursued. It may not be clear what happiness is, but you better get hold of it. Your fault, sucker, if you can’t somehow nab it for yourself.
The essential American word isn’t happiness. It’s pursuit.
This is where the struggle is engaged, happiness as a national enterprise. Its pursuit is the loneliness coiled within the heart of the American dream.
Even a postmodern to-do list is not the answer. Go ahead — meditate, do yoga, eat probiotic foods, all that.
But how about just giving up? What about wasting time? Giving up or perhaps giving over. To what? Perhaps what an earlier age called “the life of the mind,” the phrase that describes the sovereign self at ease, at home in the world. This isn’t the mind of rational thought, but the lost music of wondering, the sheer value of looking out the window, letting the world float along. It’s nothing, really, this wasted time, which is how it becomes, paradoxically, charged with “everything,” liberated into the blessed loss of ambition.

Other cultures labor, but what other nation implores each citizen to tackle happiness as a solo endeavor, a crazy paradox of a hunt for something that cannot, after all, be earned but can only be bestowed from the mysterious recesses of life? Give it up. Waste the day.
That’s what that great American lounger Whitman did. “I loaf and invite my soul,” he wrote. “I lean and loaf at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.” In this way he came to his great conception of national citizenship for Americans, “the dear love of comrades.” His loafing led to solidarity.
It’s no coincidence that our most American poet handed out this contrary notion — to loaf — amid what he called our “democratic vistas.” There’s not much said about American vistas these days. Instead, there are plans to militarize a wall on our southern border.
Loafing is not a prudent business plan, not even a life plan, not a recognizably American project. But it begins to look a little like happiness, the kind that claims you, unbidden. Stay put and let the world show up? Or get out there and be a flâneur? Which is it? Well, it’s both.
Maybe this is what my father’s third stage of life is about — wondering, rather than pursuing. You look good — meaning, hey, you’re still alive, you’re still here, and for once you don’t really need to have a to-do list.

Parerile copiilor despre mame

Raspunsuri date de copii din clasa a doua la urmatoarele intrebari:     De ce a facut-o Dumnezeu pe mama ta? 1). Ea e singura care stie unde e banda de lipit. 2). Mai mult ca sa curete casa. 3). Sa ne ajute pe noi cind ne nastem. Cum le-a facut Dumnezeu pe mame?   1). El a folosit pamant, cum ne-a facut si pe noi. 2). Magie, plus putere suprema, si a amestecat mult. 3). Dumnezeu le-a facut la fel ca pe mine si pe tine .... Numai ca a folosit piese mai mari.!!!... Din ce ingrediente au fost facute mamele?   1). Dumnezeu a facut mame din nori si par de inger si cele mai frumoase lucruri din lume si o masura de severitate. 2). Ele trebuie sa aiba oase de om. Dupa aia s-a folosit foarte multa ata, ma gandesc. De ce Dumnezeu nu te-a dat pe tine altei mame?   1). Pentru ca noi sintem neamuri.. 2). Dumnezeu a stiut ca ea ma iubeste mai mult decat mamele altor oameni. Ce fel de fetita a fost mama ta?   1). Mama mea a fost totdeauna mama mea si nimic altceva. 2). Nu stiu, ca nu am fost pe vremea aia, dar cred ca a fost mare sefa. 3). Altii imi spun ca ea era buna ....candva ! Ce a trebuit sa stie mama ta despre tatal tau inainte ca sa se casatoreasca cu el?   1).. Numele lui de familie. 2). Ea a trebuit sa stie trecutul lui. Daca a fost un escroc? Daca se imbata cu bere? 3). Daca face cel putin $800 pe an, daca el a spus ''nu'' la droguri si ''da'' la treburile casei? De ce mama ta s-a casatorit cu tatal tau?   1). Tatal meu face cele mai bune macaroane din lume. Si mama mea mananca mult. 2). Ea a devenit foarte batrana si nu mai putea sa faca nimic fara el. 3). Bunica mea mi-a spus ca mama mea nu a avut sapca gandirii pe cap cand s-a maritat cu tata! Cine-i boss la voi in casa?   1). Mama mea nu vrea sa fie boasa, dar e nevoita sa fie pentru ca tatal meu e pampalau. 2). Mama e ! Poti sa-ti dai seama dupa cum face inspectia camerei mele. Ea vede orice sub pat. 3). Eu cred ca mama e,  pentru ca are mai multe de facut decat tatal meu. Care-i diferenta dintre mama si tata?   1). Mama lucreaza si la serviciu si acasa, iar tata  numai la serviciu. 2). Mama stie cum sa vorbeasca cu profesorii fara ca sa-i sperie. 3). Tatii sint inalti si puternici, dar mama are o forta reala, pentru ca numai pe ea o intrebi cand vrei sa petreci o noapte acasa la prieteni... 4). Mama are magie, ea te face sa te simti bine fara doctor. Ce face mama ta in timpul liber?   1). Mamele nu au timp liber !!! 2). O auzi  zicand ca plateste facturi toata ziua. Ce ar trebui sa schimbe mama ta, ca sa fie perfecta? 1). In interior ea e deja perfecta. Pe dinafara cred ca ar trebui o operatie de frumusete. 2). Dieta.   Daca ai putea schimba ceva la mama ta, ce ai face?   1). Ea ma obliga tot timpul sa imi tin camera curata. As sterge asta din ea! 2). As face-o mai desteapta! Atunci ea ar recunoaste ca sora mea e cea care a facut prostii, si nu eu. 3) Doresc ca ea sa scape de ochii invizibili de la spatele capului. Cand te opresti din a zambi, trimite altor mame, bunici sau matusi….. sau oricui are de-a face cu copiii, sau are nevoie de un zambet.

"Cea mai bună iubire e iubirea moderată"

Despre modurile de iubire parentală, cu Mircea Miclea

10-13 minutes

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• Mircea Miclea este fondatorul școlii cognitive în psihologia românească, orientare cu mare prevalență în străinătate. Este fost ministru al Educației. A avut o ascensiune profesională rapidă după intrarea sa în anul 1990 la Catedra de Psihologie a Universității Babeș-Bolyai din Cluj-Napoca. Astfel, în numai 5 ani de zile a ajuns cel mai tânăr șef de catedră din universitate (șeful Catedrei de psihologie). La vârsta de numai 33 ani, în anul 1996, el a obținut gradul științific de profesor universitar, titular la disciplinele „Psihologie cognitivă” și „Modificări cognitiv-comportamentale”. Este președintele Asociației Române de Științe Cognitive (din 1996); fondatorul revistei „Creier, Cogniție, Comportament”; vicepreședinte UNESCO pentru educația și managementul academic (din 2001). De asemenea, este membru și al altor asociații profesionale academice, cum ar fi: Asociația Americană de Psihologie (1995), Societatea Europeană de Psihologie Cognitivă (1996), Societatea Psihonomică Americană (1996), Consiliul Internațional al Psihologilor (1997); și vicepreședinte al Asociației Psihologice Române (2002). Este autorul mai multor cărți incluse în programa obligatorie pentru examene. Psihologie cognitivă (Ed. Cluj-Napoca, 1994; reeditat la Ed. Polirom, Iași, 2000); Stres și apărare psihică (Ed. Presa Universitară Clujană, 1997); Development and cognition (PUC, Cluj Napoca, 2001) – în colaborare cu O. Benga; Evaluarea academică (Ed. ASCR, Cluj Napoca, 2002) – în colaborare cu D. Opre; Modele neurocognitive (Ed. ASCR, 2003) – în colaborare cu P. Curseu. S-a căsătorit cu o colegă, Ștefania, psiholog la Clinica de Diabet și Boli de Nutriție din Cluj-Napoca și au împreună doi copii, pe Mihai și pe Mara.

Domnule profesor, astăzi auzim tot mai des despre dragostea necondiţionată, care ar fi mai bună decât dragostea condiționată. Părinții nu mai știu ce să înțeleagă din aceste noi conceptualizări ale iubirii și întâmpină probleme în procesul de educație, ajungând la reale frustrări. Cum trebuie să ne iubim copiii, condiționat sau necondiționat?
Datele de cercetare arată că cea mai bună relaţie dintre un părinte şi un copil este o dragoste de intensitate moderată, nu necondiţionată sau condiţionată, ci moderată, pentru că, având o dragoste moderată faţă de propriul tău copil, poţi, deşi îi asiguri siguranţa şi ataşamentul securizant, să îl expui la riscuri în acelaşi timp. Expunerea graduală la riscuri este necesară pentru dezvoltarea mai accelerată a copilului, de aceea literatura de specialitate pledează către o dragoste moderată, nu pentru una necondiţionată.
Ce urmăresc cei care au promovat această distincţie nefundamentată, în piaţă?
Câteodată la noi, se fumează chiştoace din ţigări pe care alţii le-au aruncat deja. Adică, această atitudine despre care facem vorbire acum, legată de această dragostea necondiţionată a fost prezentă în ţări din occident de mai multă vreme. Acum vreo câţiva ani s-a făcut o analiză de către un specialist britanic apropos de efectele unei astfel de atitudini, iar concluzia lui a fost următoarea: avem copiii cu o încredere nemărginită în ei înşişi, dar cu performanţe foarte scăzute. Această atitudine de a iubi pe cineva necondiţionat, de a-i da numai întăriri fără să-i dai din când în când penalizări, de a condiţiona atitudinea lui din când în când şi de a pondera intensitatea ei în funcţie de ceea ce face copilul ei poate să îi asigure o zonă de confort şi poate să-i dezvolte încrederea în sine, dar încrederea în sine. Încrederea în sine fără competenţe este o formă fără fond. De aceea acel specialist pleda pentru a înceta această atitudine, se referea în primul rând la sistemul de educaţie britanic, arătând că, în clasamente internaţionale, în ciuda investiţiilor pe care le-au făcut ei în educaţie şi în ciuda acestei atitudini care deja, spunea el, ţine din anii 70, practic nu a apărut o valoare adăugată substanţial în educaţie, dimpotrivă, copii cu o stimă de sine foarte ridicată, dar cu performanţe foarte reduse. Nu cred că ne dorim lucrul acesta nici ca ţară, nici ca părinţi. Cred că ne dorim, în primul rând să avem copii cu performanţe ridicate şi cu încredere în ei înşişi. Încrederea prea mare în tine însuţi (overconfidence) poate să fie la fel de detrimentală ca şi încrederea redusă în tine însuţi. O supraîncredre în tine poate duce la erori majore şi de decizie şi de comportament.
Tradiţionaliştii preferă promovarea pietăţii filiale, în timp ce e tot mai la modă a considera respectul față de părinte un handicap. E bine să-i învățăm pe copii ce este respectul?
 Cred că există un principiu fundamental de care trebuie să ţină seama părinţii atunci când îşi educă copiii, şi anume, să se gândească la capătul de drum: ce fel de adulţi vor să facă din copiii lor. Dacă vor să facă din copiii lor un copil adaptat la lume adulţilor, atunci, e simplu, se uită la această lume a adulţilor şi de acolo pot să derive care sunt regulile pe care trebuie să le respecte în educaţia copiilor. De exemplu: în lumea adulţilor există multe reguli, asta înseamnă că dacă eşti angajat oriunde, ai o anumită ţinută, target-uri pe care trebuie să le faci, anumite reguli pe care trebuie să le respecţi în interior, un anumit program de muncă. Reguli. Asta înseamnă că, dacă vrei să ai un copil adaptat la această lume trebuie să-l înveţi reguli. Dacă nu-l înveţi reguli, de dragul de a-l iubi necondiţionat, îl dezavantajezi când el va deveni adult.
Al doilea principiu, existent în lumea adulţilor este legat de obiective: clare. Toate recompensele sociale (banii, prestigiul social, respectul pe care îl ai din partea colegilor de muncă sau a societăţii se leagă de rezultatele pe care tu eşti capabil să le obţii, indiferent de muncă. Dacă eşti zugrav, trebuie să obţii rezultate în zugrăvit, dacă eşti profesor – în a fi profesor, dacă eşti medic – în a fi medic. Deci, trebuie să obţii rezultate!
Așadar, ce trebuie să-l înveţi pe copilul tău? Să obţină rezultate, nu numai să aibă stări! Această ideologie, o numesc ideologie pentru că nu are nici un fundament ştiinţific această atitudine de dragoste necondiţionată – este o ideologie! – o ideologie care cultivă exagerat de mult ideea unor stări, trebuie să le dăm copiilor stări, să se simtă ei bine, să aibă tot felul de stări plăcute, să nu cumva să se simtă neplăcut. Eu atrag atenţia foarte clar: la nivelul vieţii de adult oamenii trebuie să producă rezultate. Când îţi educi copilul trebuie să-l înveţi să aibă rezultate, nu numai să aibă stări! Aşa cum te porţi tu cu el, se va dezvolta el. Dacă tu pui mereu accentul pe stări, să se simtă bine, să se simtă bine, să se simtă bine şi el va pune mereu accent pe stări să se simtă bine, să se simtă bine, şi nu să obţină rezultate! Asta îl va dezavantaja din punct de vedere social, când va fi adult.
Iată două reguli clare! Trebuie să îi educăm pe copiii noştri astfel încât să fie nişte adulţi adaptaţi. Ne uităm la lumea adulţilor şi vedem că există reguli, prin urmare trebuie să îi învăţăm reguli. Ne uităm în lumea adulţilor şi vedem că prestigiul şi respectul pe care îl obţii se datorează rezultatelor pe care le obţii, prin urmare îi învăţăm pe copiii noştri să obţină rezultate. E simplu, trebuie ţinut cont de aceste lucruri elementare şi nu de ideologii care urmăresc să vândă.
Aceeaşi ideologie educaţională a dragostei bune şi rele vorbeşte şi despre învăţarea condiţionată, negativă şi a celei necondiţionate, dezirabile. Aţi observat această tendinţă în educaţie?
Da, nu există fundament ştiinţific pentru astfel de atitudini, este o ideologie. Să ne uităm, din nou la ce se întâmplă în viaţa de adult, deoarece, copiii trebuie pregătiţi pentru viaţa care îi aşteaptă, de adult. În această viaţă de adult există câteodată recompensă, primeşti un premiu pentru ceea ce ai făcut, o vorbă bună, o laudă, primeşti atenţie. Alteori, pentru ceea ce ai făcut ţi se răspunde cu indiferenţă, alteori pentru ceea ce ai făcut ţi se răspunde cu o penalizare; uneori recompensa şi penalizarea sunt amânate, nu sunt imediate. Prin urmare, trebuie să ne obişnuim copiii exact cu aceleaşi lucruri, că uneori pentru ceea ce fac ei uneori primesc recompense, că unele recompense sunt imediate, altele sunt amânate, pentru care nu trebuie să se supere pentru că asta e viaţa de adult. Noi trebuie să îi antrenăm pentru o astfel de viaţă, că uneori primesc penalizări, alteori recompense, câteodată primesc indiferenţă, adică nici recompensă nici penalizare pentru ceea ce fac. Dacă nu ţinem cont de aceste caracteristici ale lumii care îi aşteaptă, îi dezavantajăm, creem nişte copii care vor fi dezavantajaţi în viaţa de adult.
Dacă tu în mod cronic, pe parcursul dezvoltării tale ca copil, pentru un comportament mic primeşti o recompensă mare şi imediată, repetarea acestui patern te face ca atunci când eşti adult să aştepţi de la societate, de la angajatorul tău, pentru un efort mic să obţii un salariu sau o recompensă mare şi dacă e posibil, imediată. Această atitudine te dezavanatajează complet pe piaţa forţei de muncă, în competiţia cu altcineva care se mulţumeşte să primească o recompensă mai mică sau amânată, nu imediată şi care între timp lucrează, munceşte. Trebuie să ţinem cont de gramatica vieţii de adult, pentru că, în această lume de adult va opera copilul pe care acum îl creştem.
Pentru că tot este 8 martie şi vorbim de dragoste aş vrea să ne spuneţi care e rolul mamei în cultivarea dragostei.
Dragostea este învăţată de copil în primul rând non-verbal, de la mama pe care o are. Relaţia de ataşament şi modul în care se va ataşa ulterior când devine adult îşi are baza în relaţia de ataşament pe care o are el când e mic. Mamele sunt esenţiale pentru dezvoltarea structurilor de ataşament pentru copiii lor, nu numai când sunt copii ci şi când devin adulţi, cum anume se vor relaţiona ei cu alţi adulţi când vor fi la vârsta de adult. Mama trebuie să acorde atenţie şi afectivitate moderată. În felul acesta îl face pe de o parte să aibă o relaţie de ataşament, dar şi să devină autonomi. Avem nevoie de oameni care să devină autonomi, care să fie capabili să trăiască pe propriile lor picioare, care se dezvoltă printr-o astfel de iubire de intensitate moderată.
Mulţumim foarte mult pentru timpul pe care l-aţi împărtăşit cu noi aici, de care se vor bucura cu folos, de mâine toţi prietenii Antiparenting.
Dr. Ana-Nicoleta Grigore

Love Letters

Nadja Spiegelman

13-16 minutes

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James Joyce and Nora Barnacle

On Nassau Street in Dublin, on June 10, 1904, twenty-two-year-old James Joyce saw (as clearly as he could see, since he was not wearing his glasses, and his vision was poor) the twenty-year-old Nora Barnacle, then a young chambermaid, sauntering by.  Nora would later tell the story of their first meeting often, though she often told it differently. Sometimes she said Joyce wore a sailor’s cap, and other times she said he wore a big white sombrero and a long overcoat that hung down to his feet.  Joyce proposed a date, and Barnacle agreed, but though Joyce went to the appointed place at the appointed time, she never showed. He wrote to her, “I may be blind. I looked for a long time at a head of reddish-brown hair and decided it was not yours. I went home quite dejected. I would like to make an appointment but it might not suit you. I hope you will be kind enough to make one with me—if you have not forgotten me!” A few days later, on what was likely June 16, 1904—the date on which Joyce would later set Ulysses—they had their first proper date, though it was far from proper. Joyce took Barnacle east, past the docks and the harbor, to the deserted area of Dublin known as Ringswald. There, to Joyce’s surprise and gratitude, Barnacle slipped her hand down his trousers and “made me a man.” By October, the couple had eloped to Zurich. Although the couple did not officially marry until 1931, their unconventional relationship was passionate till the end. The letters below were written when Joyce returned to Dublin alone for the first time, in 1909, in an attempt to get Dubliners published. They are delightfully, shockingly dirty. Read in full, they are also quite charming. In the absent spaces, we can hear Nora’s enthusiastic, just-as-naughty replies, and the longing of a man who wants nothing more than to be home. This correspondence was first published in 1975 in the Selected Letters of James Joyce, now out of print. These letters, or excerpts of them, have been floating around the Internet for some time now, but they merit multiple joyous re-readings. Happy birthday, James Joyce. May we all find a soul mate whose farts we would know anywhere.

 

 

3 December 1909: 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin

My darling little convent-girl,

There is some star too near the earth for I am still in a fever-fit of animal desire. Today I stopped short often in the street with an exclamation whenever I thought of the letters I wrote you last night and the night before. They must read awful in the cold light of day. Perhaps their coarseness has disgusted you. I know you are a much finer nature than your extraordinary lover and though it was you yourself, you hot little girl, who first wrote to me saying that you were longing to be fucked by me yet I suppose the wild filth and obscenity of my reply went beyond all bounds of modesty. When I got your express letter this morning and saw how careful you are of your worthless Jim I felt ashamed of what I had written. Yet now, night, secret sinful night, has come down again on the world and I am alone again writing to you and your letter is again folded before me on the table. Do not ask me to go to bed, dear. Let me write to you, dear. 

As you know, dearest, I never use obscene phrases in speaking. You have never heard me, have you, utter an unfit word before others. When men tell in my presence here filthy or lecherous stories I hardly smile. Yet you seem to turn me into a beast. It was you yourself, you naughty shameless girl who first led the way. It was not I who first touched you long ago down at Ringsend. It was you who slid your hand down inside my trousers and pulled my shirt softly aside and touched my prick with your long tickling fingers, and gradually took it all, fat and stiff as it was, into your hand and frigged me slowly until I came off through your fingers, all the time bending over me and gazing at me out of your quiet saintlike eyes. It was your lips too which first uttered an obscene word. I remember well that night in bed in Pola. Tired of lying under a man one night you tore off your chemise violently and began to ride me up and down. Perhaps the horn I had was not big enough for you for I remember that you bent down to my face and murmured tenderly ‘Fuck up, love! fuck up, love!’

Nora dear, I am dying all day to ask you one or two questions. Let me, dear, for I have told you everything I ever did and so I can ask you in turn. I wonder will you answer them. When that person whose heart I long to stop with the click of a revolver put his hand or hands under your skirts did he only tickle you outside or did he put his finger or fingers up into you? If he did, did they go far enough to touch that little cock at the end of your cunt? Did he touch you behind? Was he a long time tickling you and did you come? Did he ask you to touch him and did you do so? If you did not touch him did he come against you and did you feel it?

Another question, Nora. I know that I was the first man that blocked you but did any man ever frig you? Did that boy you were fond of ever do it? Tell me now, Nora, truth for truth, honesty for honesty. When you were with him in the dark at night did your fingers never, never unbutton his trousers and slip inside like mice? Did you ever frig him, dear, tell me truly or anyone else? Did you never never, never feel a man’s or a boy’s prick in your fingers until you unbuttoned me? If you are not offended do not be afraid to tell me the truth. Darling, darling, tonight I have such a wild lust for your body that if you were here beside me and even if you told me with your own lips that half the red-headed louts of Galway had had a fuck at you before me I would still rush at you with desire.

God Almighty, what kind of language is this I am writing to my proud blue-eyed queen! Will she refuse to answer my coarse insulting questions? I know I am risking a good deal in writing this way, but if she loves me really she will feel that I am mad with lust and that I must be told all.

Sweetheart, answer me. Even if I learn that you too have sinned perhaps it would bind me closer to you. In any case I love you. I have written and said things to you that my pride would never again allow me to say to any woman.

My darling Nora, I am panting with eagerness to get your replies to these filthy letters of mine. I write to you openly because I feel now that I can keep my word with you.

Don’t be angry, dear, dear, Nora, my little wild-flower of the hedges. I love your body, long for it, dream of it.

Speak to me, dear lips that I have kissed in tears. If this filth I have written insults you bring me to my senses again with the lash as you have done before. God help me!

I love you, Nora, and it seems that this too is part of my love. Forgive me! forgive me!

JIM

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8 December 1909: 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin

My sweet little whorish Nora,

I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck up in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue come bursting out through your lips and if I gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.

You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over me with a whore’s glow in your slumbrous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover’s fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometime too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your hot drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling’s cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.

Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.

JIM

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16 December 1909: 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin

My sweet darling girl,

At last you write to me! You must have given that naughty little cunt of yours a most ferocious frigging to write me such a disjointed letter. As for me, darling, I am so played out that you would have to lick me for a good hour before I could get a horn stiff enough even to put into you, to say nothing of blocking you. I have done so much and so often that I am afraid to look to see how that thing I had is after all I have done to myself. Darling, please don’t fuck me too much when I go back. Fuck all you can out of me for the first night or so but make me get myself cured. The fucking must all be done by you, darling, as I am so soft and small now that no girl in Europe except yourself would waste her time trying the job. Fuck me, darling, in as many ways as your lust will suggest. Fuck me dressed in your full outdoor costume with your hat and veil on, your face flushed with the cold and wind and rain and your boots muddy, either straddling across my legs when I am sitting in a chair and riding me up and down with the frills of your drawers showing and my cock sticking up stiff in your cunt or riding me over the back of the sofa. Fuck me naked with your hat and stockings on only flat on the floor with a crimson flower in your hole behind, riding me like a man with your thighs between mine and your rump very fat. Fuck me in your dressing gown (I hope you have that nice one) with nothing on under it, opening it suddenly and showing me your belly and thighs and back and pulling me on top of you on the kitchen table. Fuck me into you arseways, lying on your face on the bed, your hair flying loose naked but with a lovely scented pair of pink drawers opened shamelessly behind and half slipping down over your peeping bum. Fuck me if you can squatting in the closet, with your clothes up, grunting like a young sow doing her dung, and a big fat dirty snaking thing coming slowly out of your backside. Fuck me on the stairs in the dark, like a nursery-maid fucking her soldier, unbuttoning his trousers gently and slipping her hand into his fly and fiddling with his shirt and feeling it getting wet and then pulling it gently up and fiddling with his two bursting balls and at last pulling out boldly the mickey she loves to handle and frigging it for him softly, murmuring into his ear dirty words and dirty stories that other girls told her and dirty things she said, and all the time pissing her drawers with pleasure and letting off soft warm quiet little farts behind until her own girlish cockey is as stiff as his and suddenly sticking him up in her and riding him.

Basta! Basta per Dio!

I have come now and the foolery is over. Now for your questions!

We are not open yet. I send you some posters. We hope to open on the 20th or 21st. Count 14 days from that and 3 1/2 days for the voyage and I am in Trieste.

Get ready. Put some warm-brown-linoleum on the kitchen and hang a pair of red common curtains on the windows at night. Get some kind of a cheap common comfortable armchair for your lazy lover. Do this above all, darling, as I shall not quit the kitchen for a whole week after I arrive, reading, lolling, smoking, and watching you get ready the meals and talking, talking, talking, talking to you. O how supremely happy I shall be! God in heaven, I shall be happy there! I figlioli, il fuoco, una bona mangiata, un caffe nero, un Brasil, il Piccolo della Sera, e Nora, Nora mia, Norina, Noretta, Norella, Noruccia ecc ecc…

Eva and Eileen must sleep together. Get some place for Georgie. I wish Nora and I had two beds for night-work. I am keeping and shall keep my promise, love. Time fly on, fly on quickly! I want to go back to my love, my life, my star, my little strange-eyed Ireland!

A hundred thousand kisses, darling!

JIM

 

 

 

These letters were originally published in the Selected Letters of James Joyce, now out of print. More can be found on Adoxoblog.