Whoever criticized Matthew McConaughey’s acceptance speech has clearly decided that Sally Fields never delivered those gushing lines some 20 years ago, which totally makes sense to me, but I still think that if that particular speech came to be, there’s a redeeming quality in all the others past, present and future.
Personally I didn’t find it particularly cringeworthy (also, cringeworthy. A word that does exist, according to OED), and I wasn’t all scandalized by the fact the he didn’t mention AIDS in the speech, he starred in a whole friggin’ movie on it, for Christ’s sake! Isn’t that enough for talking about long forgotten diseases that apparently are not considered fashionable enough for the movie industry since the 1990s?
However, moving away from my belated Oscar rant, not six months have passed since I came to Glasgow, and grad school is already almost over. These are really the very last assignments, the very last lectures and seminars I’m going to have to deal with for a really long time, possibly the rest of my life.
Now comes the scary part, read: actually having to find my way in the big, scary world. All the jobs -the few left, actually- seem to be too much for me, but hopefully I’ll get lucky for once and maybe find a place in the world, finally.
What I’ve been reading:
I’m still halfway through Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, I’d like to say that I’m savoring it, but I’m finding it easier to unwind by watching movie trailers, top tens and old Oscar speeches on YouTube lately. A powerful novel, no wonder it’s a classic; I can disturbingly relate to the Creature at this stage – when he’s still the outcast par excellence and can’t seem to fit anywhere in society.
‘Hateful day when I received life!’ I exclaimed in agony. ‘Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and abhorred.’
“These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude; but when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should become acquainted with my admiration of their virtues, they would compassionate me, and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion and friendship? I resolved, at least not to despair, but in every way to fit myself for an interview with them which would decide my fate. I postponed this attempt for some months longer; for the importance attached to its success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail.
Increase of knowledge only discovered to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true; but it vanished when I beheld my person reflected in water, or my shadow in the moonshine, even as that frail image and that inconstant shade.
“I endeavoured to crush these fears, and to fortify myself for the trial which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathising with my feelings, and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my sorrows, nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam’s supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandoned me: and, in the bitterness of my heart, I cursed him.
Because he’s different, you know? He doesn’t fit anywhere, he still doesn’t have a full grasp on where he’s supposed to be or what he’s supposed to do or why he’s supposed to do anything. I can picture the eighteen-year-old Mary Godwin feeling both Frankenstein and Creature, an outcast from her family and sometimes even from her lover, poet Percy Bysshe Shelley and a failed parent who gave birth to a baby doomed to die soon.
Which, once again, brings me back to feeling old and useless at 25, when I think of these 18th and 19th century literary circles, full of poet/rockstars who defied all laws and lived and wrote and composed like there was no tomorrow.
I have trouble finishing 2000 words essays and it takes me approximately three days to write a meaningless, confused blog entry. Which no one will ever read, unless I get inspired and talented all of a sudden and future scholars will start digging up all my shite and psychoanalise my writing style. I’ll have themes in literature textbooks and archivists will pay a small fortune to get hold of my university notes and all that doodling. All that doodling.