Misery loves company

I don't think I can put this nearly as eloquently as the Abbot, but snot, drippy poo and lung grease seem to sum up our Christmas nicely -- not to mention a somewhat unhinged middle child who gets a bit freaked out by illness.

I'm beginning to think that between the surreal and germ-infused 2008 Vancouver winter landscape, the crippling wood panelling of the burbs, and my own psycho Christmas, Abbot, Vivant and Pinot have crossed into some sort of twilight zone.

In such circumstances, The Plague is probably a great choice in reading. I find this to be a very mentally dark time of year to begin with, so, rather than fight it, perhaps it's best to wallow in it. Well wallowed Abbot. I'd rather face the darkness (or listen to the chorus of coughs) than drown it out with faux-happy thoughts.

I think I'll dust off my copy of Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. Short and accessible, unlike some of his other works. At this time of year, I can really only trust alcoholics to write the brilliant depressing novels I need.

Pinot

Raymond Carver and the reality within

Talk of Hemmingway (who I liked but never loved) got me thinking about two alcoholic writers that I do love -- William Faulkner and Raymond Carver. The first was known for his novels, the second for short stories. Both American, both drinkers, both dying of non-drinking causes at relatively young ages. But more importantly, both holding up a mirror to our lives in a way that showed like few others the true gut-wretching pathetic-ness of our existence.

Why am I drawn to such dark writers? Here's a sample from Carver's story "Vitamins":

"A week or so into the new year, Patti and I were having a drink. She'd just come home from work. It wasn't so late, but it was dark and rainy. I was going to work in a couple of hours. But first we were having us some Scotch and talking. Patti was tired. She was down in the dumps and into her third drink. Nobody was buying vitamins. All she had was Donna and Pam, a semi-new girl who was a klepto. We were talking about things like negative weather and the number of parking tickets you could get away with. Then we got talking about how we'd be better off if we moved to Arizona, someplace like that.

I fixed us another one. I looked out the window. Arizona wasn't a bad idea."

Carver's stories are all like that. Mood and drink -- and that damn mirror held up to our everyday existence. Both Carver and his characters had the drink in them. For all the woozy drunkeness, maybe there's a clarity there that few are willing to admit to.