the past two nights, i've watched friday the 13th parts 1 and 2 (it's the 25th anniversary). all these years as a horror fan, and i thought i had seen them. i've definitely not seen them before. and i have to say, i was pleasantly surprised. why they went on to produce so many parts (are they at 11 now?), i don't know. i have to see the third installment, but they probably could have ended after the second one. if you want to see the first one stop reading right now. i mean right now as of that period you just passed. all this time, i thought jason was the killer in each of the movies, so i was really surprised to find out that his mother is the killer in the first one. which has got me wondering now who was the first female serial killer in the slasher genre. i may have a project on my hands here.
in any case, i think it's time for coffee and reading. i just finished e.m. forster's a passage to india. i'm a big forster fan, but i've been putting of reading this book for a long time. it's such a beautifully written book, but even forster himself said after 30 years that the book was dated. i think it is in part, still quite relevant, but i guess the Anglo-India mentality is further removed from me.
most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it, and the books and talk that would describe it as interesting are obliged to exaggerate, in the hope of justifying their own existence. inside its cocoon of work or social obligation, the human spirit slumbers for the most part, registering the distinction between pleasure and pain, but not nearly as alert as we pretend. there are periods in the most thrilling day during which nothing happens, and though we continue to exclaim 'i do enjoy myself' or 'i am horrified' we are insincere. 'as far as i feel anything, it is enjoyment, horror' -- it's no more than that really, and a perfectly adjusted organism would be silent.
~ e.m. forster ~
~ e.m. forster ~
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