February 07, 2011

Notes & Asides

I couldn't believe a writer on National Catholic Reporter "came out", as in came out against Hell. She simply did not believe in it and wrote shamelessly about its nonexistence. Oh how seductive be that baseless belief! It's amazing to me that she can render the words of Christ about Hell so meaningless, but then there's always the desire to make God in our image. (How does she know really Christ, if she doesn't know Him via the Scripture?) Jeff Miller fisked her and a commenter recommended everyone read C.S. Lewis' "The Great Divorce" in order to understand better how a good God can have a hell. This was the second recommendation for that book; a priest likewise did. I didn't read it, in part because I simply didn't see how a book could make me "feel better" about the existence of hell. But perhaps I should've/should. I got the first chapter free on the Kindle and almost got through the preface.

* * *

It occurred to me how important location is for good reading and writing; on the beach I found my muse engaged and alert. There's nothing quite like the sun glint-gladding off the side of my face, the peaceful Gulf before me to inspire some wordmmithin'. It's been just ten days or so but it seems like a generation ago. One thing's for sure, I'm going to sign me up for every year they go down there. It's a fine, cheap supplement to the main winter vacation in early December, and I had a grand old time. How memorable that painful, nails-on-chalkboard play!

* * *

Pleased by the new surroundings in the spare bedroom. Not quite as comfortable as the desk, that wood ship, but like the frisson of the new. Overlook a landscape of rich-titled books, and the sharp little phone in its holder looks so businessy; the combined effect is that of the well-appointed captain's cabin on an ocean-liner. A little statuette of a turtle reading a book stands by the phone, and on the wall hangs a print of "The Bookworm".

The small case of unread books allure me; none more so than David Lipsky's lengthily-titled "Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself: A Road Trip with David Foster Wallace". Then too there's "Still Bored in a Culture of Entertainment" looks like an entertaining morsel. I like that even in future hours of boredom and dullness, which I so fear, I have that book to assure me that at the very least I'm not alone.

Other books include "Money Ball" by Michael Lewis. Anything by Lewis seems interesting, no doubt asserted by his sales figures. Then too there's good ol' Michael Chabon.

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