Hello, World. This is my first blog.
Hello to your mitochondria, and centrioles and genomes, and all those marvelous ecosystems that contain and define each of us. Hello to our individual differentiations and speciations. And by the way, do you know that each of us has a particular scent, different from all the other billions of human ecosystems on this earth? Some wayward microbe, or strand of lost nucleic acid, or wacky molecule of enzyme leaves us each with a particular, unique smell. Or, so they say.
And so I woke this morning wondering about the particular smell of V.S. Naipaul, the Nobel Laureate who's being lambasted all over the media this week for ONCE AGAIN letting loose with misogynistic, denigrating opinions about women writers, living and dead. Women writers are 'inferior,' he says. We are 'sentimental.' No female writing compares with his. He says. Not even Jane Austen. Not even Nadine Gordimer.
Why is everyone enraged? This is his 'same ol same ol' patter, his worn out song-and-dance on matters literary, as well as his categorical judgements on other races, other religions, even other species. Oh, let him be. Waste no more energy denouncing sad-eyed Naipaul. Still, with all his exhalations and vituperations, I wonder what his particular micro-smell is. What odor of his is caroming around the room, even the planet, exploding against the molecules of other human beings. Suggesting perhaps a million micro mind-twitches. (Oh dear, is misogynism contagious, like a contact-high?)
Because Naipual is dapper in dress and very much a Brit in spite of his Trinidadian-Indian origins, a friends suggests that he might smell of Guerlain's English Leather, with a touch of curry. I think too obvious. Another friend suggests decay. She is sure that behind his no-lip expression lurks bad teeth. Someone else suggests the smell of bitter lemons. The caustic smell of lye. Of carrion. Even, flatulence. But these are not cellular levels scents. These are judgements.
Just now I am thinking of Naipaul and what i smell is ...nothing. An existential smell. Perhaps one only he can smell. Essence of self-involvement. A projection of inner confidence and complacency that makes him more attractive to himself. "I opinionate, therefore I smell."
Thank you, Mahalo! Comments and opinions welcome!
Hello to your mitochondria, and centrioles and genomes, and all those marvelous ecosystems that contain and define each of us. Hello to our individual differentiations and speciations. And by the way, do you know that each of us has a particular scent, different from all the other billions of human ecosystems on this earth? Some wayward microbe, or strand of lost nucleic acid, or wacky molecule of enzyme leaves us each with a particular, unique smell. Or, so they say.
And so I woke this morning wondering about the particular smell of V.S. Naipaul, the Nobel Laureate who's being lambasted all over the media this week for ONCE AGAIN letting loose with misogynistic, denigrating opinions about women writers, living and dead. Women writers are 'inferior,' he says. We are 'sentimental.' No female writing compares with his. He says. Not even Jane Austen. Not even Nadine Gordimer.
Why is everyone enraged? This is his 'same ol same ol' patter, his worn out song-and-dance on matters literary, as well as his categorical judgements on other races, other religions, even other species. Oh, let him be. Waste no more energy denouncing sad-eyed Naipaul. Still, with all his exhalations and vituperations, I wonder what his particular micro-smell is. What odor of his is caroming around the room, even the planet, exploding against the molecules of other human beings. Suggesting perhaps a million micro mind-twitches. (Oh dear, is misogynism contagious, like a contact-high?)
Because Naipual is dapper in dress and very much a Brit in spite of his Trinidadian-Indian origins, a friends suggests that he might smell of Guerlain's English Leather, with a touch of curry. I think too obvious. Another friend suggests decay. She is sure that behind his no-lip expression lurks bad teeth. Someone else suggests the smell of bitter lemons. The caustic smell of lye. Of carrion. Even, flatulence. But these are not cellular levels scents. These are judgements.
Just now I am thinking of Naipaul and what i smell is ...nothing. An existential smell. Perhaps one only he can smell. Essence of self-involvement. A projection of inner confidence and complacency that makes him more attractive to himself. "I opinionate, therefore I smell."
Thank you, Mahalo! Comments and opinions welcome!
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