I’m not sure whether I should be more concerned about the American public who found it necessary to read Greg McKeown’s Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less or the fact that Greg McKeown thought it was necessary to write about such common sense topics in the first place.
Essentialism is essentially nonessential. McKeown has spent the better part of 250+ pages writing about concepts of self and time management that are so routine to human existence that a kindergartner could have saved me time by telling me what McKeown has listed in this book.
Essentially (all right, I’ll stop), according to McKeown, we try to fit too much into our lives. We make ourselves unhappy by not accomplishing our goals and spending time with our families because we are absolutely dreadful at the work-personal life balance.
Everything in life can be separated into the realm of the essential, what is vital and absolutely necessary, and the nonessential, everything else, including dicking around on the internet. But because we humans have largely developed the psychological phenomenon known as learned helplessness, we struggle to be able to differentiate between to the essential and the nonessential, further complicating our lives. Ergo, we need Greg McKeown, a leadership researcher from England, to show us the light.
Full disclosure: I have never seen any of The Godfather movies.
I own nearly all of Béla Tarr and Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s filmographies. . . but I have never seen any of The Godfather films, at least not in their entirety. This is a problem, a problem I have set out to solve. But like any good former English major, I have to read the book first, even if it proves to be 400+ pages of nothing but very creative ways to die before I can watch the three movies, each which are about three hours long of even more creative ways to die.
Rainer Werner Fassbinder never ceases to amaze me not only as a brilliant film director for his masterful direction of some of the most challenging, most brutal screenplays in New German Wave cinema throughout the 1970s and 80s, but also as a precise craftsman of the most obscene theatrical plays, especially those of his controversial antiteater collection, six of which are published in 1986’s Rainer Werner Fassbinder: Plays, edited and translated by Denis Calandera.
Every time November rolls around, I can’t help but begin to sneer at a few things; the cooler weather’s inability to quit ushering in snow and wind and negative temperatures, my inability to physically stay warm for approximately four months despite mountains of blankets and sweaters, everyone else’s inability to stop uttering in their lowered voices the Game of Thrones quote, “Winter is coming,” and my email’s inability to filter out an onslaught of reminders of what is about to happen that month from the National Novel Writing Month squad.
That’s right, writers. You know what November means.
Let me preface this by noting that I am fairly torn about NaNoWriMo as a concept because I really want to love the idea of it. I see the benefit and how it can truly help writers… but we just don’t see eye-to-eye, NaNo and I.
Since the beginning of fall, I’ve had an unhealthy infatuation with silent films, particularly horror films since Halloween is nearly upon us. I’ve made it a habit of watching TCM at night when I’m trying to fall asleep. There’s something calming about the black-and-white screen and the lack of auditory dialogue, especially when your entire day was spent in some form of verbal or digital dialogue with someone, and the scary movies from back in the day aren’t exactly pieces that will keep me up all night in pure terror.
I was never much for silent movies when I was growing up; I don’t even recall ever watching many black-and-white films. Like most children from the 90s, I need constant stimulation to justify my existence, so slowing down and focusing entirely on the storyline without the glitz and glam of special effects, surround sounds, and hunky actors is challenging to say the least. The melodrama of Old Hollywood is comical, and even though sometimes it is nauseating to see the old stereotypes and ideologies that dictated the early days of film, I largely feel like these films are brief glances into our history; look how far we’ve come, baby, now.
Well, Ms. McCullers, the heart may very well be a lonely hunter, but if you drag out a listless melodrama with little action, sparse characterization, and suffocate it with too many conflicting philosophical, theological, and political ideologies, the heart begins to beg for that very loneliness.
Mine pleaded to be left alone nearly every time I picked up Carson McCullers’ Southern American novel, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, originally published in 1940. But the TBR jar giveth a title to be read and the TBR jar taketh away. . . but only if I finish the book; those are the rules. And it’s not usually in my nature to abandon a text, but I came close several times with this book.
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter takes place in a sleepy little Georgia mill town and centers primarily around a deaf-mute named John Singer. Singer attracts several other inhabitants of this town who find comfort in his listening and understanding skills; Mick Kelly, a tomboy who desperately wants to study music and is based on McCullers herself, Dr. Benedict Mady Copeland, an angry, revolutionist African American doctor, Biff Brannon, the quiet owner of a local bar whose wife passes away, and Jake Blount, a misshapen alcoholic with Socialist beliefs. Together, these characters tiptoe around each other while still interacting, none truly able to communicate with the others.
At some point in their reading careers, all readers experience the internal debate over whether a text is necessary, a Canonical masterpiece that has transformed into a world renowned classic, or whether it is just pure obscene, an absolute abortion of the highest morals of our society.
Can it be both? Is it both? And what does that say about the reader and the society in which they reside?
The internal battle began to rage with my second reading of Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita, and even after letting it settle for a few weeks, I’m not sure which side has won the battle within me.
I say my second reading of this charming, delightful, shocking, abhorrent little novel because I attempted to read it once in college, but because László Krasznahorkai was hogging up all my time (he is a demanding fellow) for a critical analysis, I abandoned poor Lolita after a chapter or two. She has listlessly waited on my shelf for my post college days for her owner to pick her up again, and even though the text is disgusting and difficult, I’m largely glad I read it.