Michael Ondaatje Quotes

On writing and reading

- A writer uses a pen instead of a scalpel or blow torch..
- As a writer, one is busy with archaeology.
- I don't have a plan for a story when I sit down to write. I would get quite bored carrying it out.
- I don't see novels ending with any real sense of closure.
- I read fiction, a little nonfiction, a little poetry - as various as possible.
- I see the poem or the novel ending with an open door.
- I tend not to know what the plot is or the story is or even the theme. Those things come later, for me.
- It doubles your perception, to write from the point of view of someone you're not.
- It's a discovery of a story when I write a book, a case of inching ahead on each page and discovering what's beyond in the darkness, beyond where you're writing.
- It's a responsibility of the writer to get the reader out of the story somehow.
- It's why you create characters: so you can argue with yourself.
- Once I've discovered the story, I might restructure it, maybe move things around, set up a clue that something is going to happen later, but that happens much later in an editorial capacity.
- Prose is much more public; I would like it to be as private, intimate, casual, not structured as poetry, not having an agenda.
- Research can be a big clunker. It's difficult to know how you can make the historical light.
- Right now, I have no idea what I will write or if I will write again.
- To write about someone like myself would be very limiting.
- Truth, at the wrong time, can be dangerous.
- When I was writing Billy the Kid, all I had was the question, How do I write this book? That's always the question.
- When you're writing, it's as if you're within a kind of closed world.
- You don't want to write your own opinion, you don't want to just represent yourself, but represent yourself through someone else.
- You want to suggest something new, but at the same time, resolve the drama of the action in the novel.
- You're getting everyone's point of view at the same time, which, for me, is the perfect state for a novel: a cubist state, the cubist novel.
- The last three books are much more a case of a moment of history, what happened almost by accident or coincidence, like being in the same elevator or lifeboat.

On Anil's Ghost

- Anil's Ghost is a pretty serious book, but you do want to have a break.
- Anil's Ghost may be a familiar style to earlier books I've written, but it feels new to me.
- I did not expect Anil's Ghost to go off into a twenty or thirty page section in the Grove of Ascetics when I began, but that seemed to be the way the book should go.
- One of the metaphors was the burial and stealing of Buddhist statues, how they get stolen and buried, unearthed and resold. Like human life, a metaphor for human life.
- That's Anil's path. She grows up in Sri Lanka, goes and gets educated abroad, and through fate or chance gets brought back by the Human Rights Commission to investigate war crimes.

On The English Patient

- I do know that film is much more visceral, in terms of its effect on the reader.
- In the book the relationship with Katharine and Almasy is sort of only in the patient's mind.

On being a Sri Lankan born Canadian writer

- I grew up in a country that was very different - the germs of racism were there then, I just wasn't aware of it.
- I'm a Canadian citizen. But I always want to feel at home in Sri Lanka. I'm a member of both countries.
- It's an odd state to be in, blowing the whistle on your home country.

---------taken from here.

views, reviews, and stevie nicks

Confession--I didn't manage to study after all today--obsessedly browsed and read all music-related stuff, and did some extensive update on ukulele. The recent posts (and the lack of them) made me ponder if we had got it right after all the zest and labor: if the initial rush was too strong and tired out the drive to follow up, if too many people were invited, if the implicitly set tones and themes were too formal and contricting when all we ever wanted was personal views and random thoughts and (if it should happen) freely indulging in artists/genres we share common interest in. I should hope it's just the mad busy end-of-April period. I should also hope it's just my occasional streak of intolerance/impatience stretching its limbs. Hmph.

Rants and grunts aside, I am bursting to ask you this--do you know that Stevie Nicks (that gender-neutral voice that sang Touched by an Angel on Sweet November OST) is female?!! and an attractive, young woman at that?!! BLEW MY MIND AWAY! I was reading Dixie Chicks biography and it cited that the band had covered some classic item of Stevie Nicks--one click away and I was looking at a blonde girl/woman, and my first and only thought was: wrong spelling, name of that voice should be Steve Nicks. So, some more browsing..and arrrrhhhhh, it's her, it's her! Gosh. How this will change the listening experience of Touched! Incroyable..

Rufus craze

The Rufus craze has set in and seems wouldn't be going for quite a while..i really really really should cut my hands off for this, but I just watched a whole lot other Rufus videos. And one interesting (and to me, moving) thing I noticed is that, the way he carried himself changed a lot after he re-emerged from rehab, not just body gestures, but a lot in the way he talks and what he talks about. I'll come back to this later. (I just realized how horribly difficult the past biostats papers are..speechless..) but for now, I'll leave this space with this—

SMR 5

(c'td from the last 'diary entry')

One, two, three... I wasn't sure whether I was counting the no. of drawers caught in that brief glimpse or just counting in order to calm my boiling excitement. On reaching 10, I made up the biggest decision in my life.


Back in the mansion, Raymond King untied the knot to the bundle of mail but was suddenly reminded of the opened telegram. Not for the first time, but certainly one of those rarest moments, Mr. King found himself in a rather amusing gesture - his body bending over the oak table, hands still holding on to the ends of the untied thread and his eyes dead fixed on the red telegram lying cosily beside his sleeve - his whole body was locked in time and space as a pearl of throughts streamed through his busy mind. If I put the telegram back and return the envelop, will Mr. no 6 suspect that I've opened it without his consent? I could well explain the little accident to him in person to clear up any misunderstandings but how do I explain the initial curiosity that prompted me to take his mail in the first place? On top of that, no. 6 hasn't been here for almost a month. If he doesn't check in next week, I'm entitled to dispose all his mails as rightfully stated on the agreement. The logical conclusion could well end the mental struggle, until the printings on the telegram inadvertantly caught him. The letters were fading from the dampness but the word 'cypress' held his gaze in a vise. It was the maiden name of this ancient mansion but was no longer in use ever since he became heir. The current addressees, of course, only knew this place as '1 Moonriver Lane', and never Cypress! God forbids! Sensing an ominous sign coming, Mr. King snatched up the little piece of paper and squinted his eyes, which were now glimming with anxiety. "get out cypress on recieving next mail M. coming, Jade.' Raymond King dropped back in his vine chair, deep in thoughts. He dissembled the short message and chewed them over: 1. Jade, the sender, is relaying an important if not life-and-death signal to no.6 and the source of threat is the mysterious M. 2. There's a new mail coming in and upon recieving it, no. 6 is supposed to 'get out of cypress' as told. The biggest cipher,however, was 'get out cypress'. If 'cypress' was indeed referring to this mansion, could 'get out' literally mean to escape this place and move elsewhere? It wasn't uncommon for strangers to knock on his door and inquire about Miss and Mr. so and so although Mr. King emphasised to his customers that '1 moonriver lane' should be a mailing address and never be mistaken as their actual residence. Suppose Jade the sender, by mistake, assumed Cypress was where no.6 lived, the message would then suggest 'get out of your house.' If not, it could imply 'terminate your deal with the master of cypress.' And who is M? The urgent undertone seemed to tag M with a dangerous nature, a nameless face with a deadly pursuit. In all circumstances, no.6 was an alarming case. If only 'cypress' was a harmless coincidence! If not... Mr. King frowned and his heart tightend. Suddenly he remembered 'the next mail' and sprang from the chair. The newly arrived bundle was soon a mess as he frantically sieved through the letters looking for the small number tag. Six, six, six... to his great disappointment, there was none. As if to distract himself from a million palpitating possibilities that flooded in and broke the dam to his serene life, Mr. King closed his eyes and dived deep in a sea of fading memories. He thought of Catherine, in an extravagantly framed portrait, looking golden and regal. She kissed the child gently in her arm, whispered a lullaby and too quickly disappeared without a trace, leaving the baby alone. The Cypress. Raymond King snapped back to reality, frowned bitterly and knocked his knuckles against the table. He MUST get the next mail.



Chapter 4 No. 6
'There ye go, boy!' my old man tossed me a heavy package of letters. It hit me on the shoulders and I winced. 'Wassup with ye? Ye alrite? Kinda stupid and slow today huh?' he smiled a fatherly smile and gave a bearly pat on the same shoulder which was hit less than five seconds ago. I secretly grimaced but said nothing, in fear he would mock me further on my words which strangely, all sounded like laughing stock to him. If only I could be in a perpetual jolly mood like my old man! In fact, I had been a nervous wreck ever since I made my first move. I dare not tell it to anybody, certainly not THIS man smiling across at me. I'd lose my job instantly for sure.

Yesterday I got my usual share of letters. Instead of dutifully setting out on my bike and delivering them to the right household, I picked out those addressed to Raymond King and carefully examined them. Dear readers, if you still remember that stroke of moment where I made up a very important decision, and here it is! The curtains have just unfolded. I'm like a prankish boy throwing pebbles into an once tranquil pond. I watched the ripples spread far into a mass of dead foliage, disturbed them until now there was a small clearing. What was I looking for? I had no idea, but I was sure there WAS something, in the same way I always knew hamsters hid their nuts in secret alcoves nobody else knew of except me. There I held the letters up to eye level and shuffled them back to back. The numbers were there as expected, 25, 6 and 31. If this was what they would call a turn of fate, I did it with a single stroke. I took out a black ink pen, and with my clammy hands, etched a vertical line beside 6. What a difference would 10 make? If only I knew then!

SMR 4

HOHOHO Strange Mail Room 4! Actually, I am just bored..and feel like writing too, so I take this chance to pick it up. Continue as and when you like to, or if not, I’ll add a few more paragraphs later if I could. =D thoughts?

###

For the rest of the afternoon, Raymond King sat musing at the French window. No one came. The autumn rains are nearing their end, and the first northern winds had duly announced the impending arrival of another winter. Down the length of the garden, the rose beds were a shameful scene of neglect. Wild daffodils had grown in abandon through the past summer, and now they danced that occasional, sad little shivering repertoire in the whimpering wind, sighing their resignation at another summer gone by. The only lively and in fact the single noticeable thing in the garden, was a small patch of chrysanthemums, angrily flaming near the French window. Raymond had been gazing at the ephemeral white and yellow mass for very long now, his thoughts drifting to a woman, Catherine…Catherine K., the single most lovely woman in this world, whose short appearances in his life seemed to both intensify and drown out all things in his life since…it’s been very long now…now…

Just as he was about to direct his thoughts out of the immense complex that was Catherine, the door bell suddenly buzzed in the dead silence. Caught all too surprised, Raymond rushed to his feet, not realizing he was still holding the small letter in his left hand—it had been caught in a crack in the oak armrest, and upon the abrupt pull it was ripped open—a red form fell out—so it was a telegram then, and an urgent one at that! But there was the door to answer first—the bell buzzed a second time, hesitantly, as if the ringer was not sure of the address. Raymond righted his bow tie and brushed a hand over his already impeccable hair, and opened the door—only to find the new post office boy shuffling his feet on the door mat, a little red in the face and whizzed a bit. When did he come through the main gate? “—sir, I pressed the bell at the gate but ain’t no one was answering me, so I’d thought I’d better come in drop the mail at your door, I was wondering—“ “Yes, yes, I am sorry I did not hear the bell ring, I’ll take them here, thank you very much.” Raymond didn’t let the boy have another chance slipping curious peeks past his broad build; he took the moderate bundle of mail and politely but firmly shut the door.

Chapter 3

Diary, 11 November

“I went to the strange mansion again! I was supposed to take the Lake district mail today, but I swore to boss that I had to pick up an important parcel down at Queen’s and hopped on my bike, heart pounding and heading straight to Mansion. I hopped off the bike far from reaching—don’t want to alert the mystery man if I can help it!—and walked up to the house with the mail bundle. I’d be damned—when I arrived at the gate, it was slightly ajar! Someone must have been careless and forgot to lock it. My finger hovered over the bell button for a few seconds, and then, from the corner of my eyes, I saw a broad figure leaning over one of the bigger windows, seems to be lost in those strange yellow flowers. He’s not facing my direction now…if I’d just try this…I dunno how I reasoned with myself, but fifteen seconds later I’ve crossed the desolate garden path and now standing at the front porch, no one seemed to be any wiser..

Now, I could do two things: knock on the door and deliver the mail, before anyone comes back, OR, have a look around first. Since I've got this far…But I was disappointed. The front porch is a spacious structure, still has the suggestions of the grandeur of decoration and lush vines it used to boast, but now it’s just a barren, dusty porch, rundown from disuse and lack of care. The white marble floor has grown an ungracious grey, and the rich crimson carpet has worn a bit threadbare...wait, door mat. There would always be something under a door mat—a key, a letter, a note, anything. Excited by the idea, I swallowed hard to contain my nervousness, and lifted a corner of the carpet, quickly and quietly as I could manage. Nothing, just the same plain marble, a tad whiter than the uncovered part. I lifted the opposite corner—nothing. The third corner and I laid down the heavy fabric laughing at my simplemindedness. The last corner didn’t give up any note either, and I yanked my arm out of frustration. And there and then, I saw a faint corner of an engraving, covered under the center of the big carpet. Damn! I carefully rolled the carpet to one side, not caring if anyone would suddenly open the door on me now. There it was, in classical style, an elegant engraving that read,

The Cypress.

Property of King and Kerr.

1712.

I was totally blown away. I knew this was an old house, but I didn’t expect it to be this old. And King? Isn’t the mystery man also a Mr. King? But he seems more like a caretaker than the owner of the house! Of course Kings abound just like Smiths and Jacksons, but this remains an interesting point to investigate…hmmm…but I couldn’t squat there feeling up the old engravings forever. I gave it a deep last look and rolled back the carpet, shuffling my feet on it to make it even again—and clumsy me, I tripped! Falling forward, my right arm inadvertently pressed on the bell, making a rather shrill sound in the stillness. I hurriedly picked up the mail bundle from the floor and kept smoothing the carpet under my feet. Odd that no one answered the door sooner. I couldn’t hear a thing moving beyond the thick oak door, so I pressed a second time, not sure if I was discovered, but did not wish to run away and look guilty either.

The door opened on me as abruptly as his last appearance; I almost jumped. Stammering a bit I said the words I just made up ten seconds ago, and before I even managed to probe if he knew a Mr Kerr in the neighborhood, he cut me short, obviously perturbed by my less-than-discreet peeks past him, and definitely also something else. Promptly thanked me and without another word, I found myself empty-handed and facing a shut door again.

But the few seconds I got to steal a look was…amazing! Despite the decrepit looks on the outside, I am sure the inside of mansion is as immaculate as it was three centuries ago. Old, oaken furniture, a huge library spanning the walls, old paintings and portraits, oriental carpets—it was something I’d only seen in period dramas—except one thing: the old-world harmony of the place is also disrupted by the cramming of a lot of idiosyncratic, out-of-place boxes. I saw a set of quaint Chinese medicine cabinet-like chest of drawers at the far end of the hall, and right beside it was a bronze set, and then a wooden one and a stainless steel one, each with one to a few drawers or slots, and all with locks. Unless I am very much mistaken, they must be used for mailboxes—you just can’t name another use for them weird little chests of drawers! And they very well explain the tiny numbers on those mail..well, not quite explain it, but now I have an inkling of what they are for…they are indexes.

novel marathon

I do miss novel marathon, even if it makes no sense, even if it's just une phrase per day. Maybe we should resurrect the good old fun slapstick tradition.

So here goes,
We're sitting face to face, you telling me your name is Riko and I telling you I don't care if it's Liso or Wibo coz I don't pronounce R and K for god knows why. We've only met for two minutes and your burning eyes are boring into my nose bridge as if me not pronoucing your name right will be armageddon of my own little world. You must be Psycho for goodness sake and I'm an idiot to have the patience to carry on our stupid conversation for more than the time the mosquito journeys from my sleeve to your eyebrow.

Jude 16:37 (GMT +0800) 13th March 2006

***
“My name is Riko.” I tell the girl sitting across the wooden picnic table. I stare at her, hard, my eyes cruising her freckled face, vigilant for any tiny twist of a muscle or two, any barely tangible sign of recognition. Apart from a puzzled, nervous frown, she looked blank, positively blasé.

“Riko. It’s Ri-ko. What’s yours?”

“Alright, RI-KO, I don’t care if it's Liso or Wibo, coz I don't pronounce R and K for god knows why!” she snaps, now alarmed and seems most anxious to leave the conversation at that and leave her alone. Maybe someone is coming to pick her up soon, or else why is she not leaving this table for home or something? The beach is almost deserted at this hour now—it’s late summer still, but the expansive sands and the low-hanging palm trees already acquired a desolate winter feeling. In the northern stretch of the sky gluey rain clouds are gathering fast; a thunderstorm is coming. Still keeping an eye on her, I glanced down the other tables: even the few hippies hanging out in the distance are packing up. Now she takes out a chic cell phone, checks it, frowns deeply and heaves a light sigh. Pocketing it again she immediately diverts her eyes to the humming, restless sea—avoiding my querying eyes. Whoever she is waiting for, why didn’t she just call? I should probably leave and get hold of something to eat now—haven’t been eating in two days—but I’ve got to stay, I’ve got to hang on to this silent, guarded girl, this conversation, for this is a matter of life or virtual death.

Haha this is hilarious, good old amusement, and I am having fun. Go on go on, I’ve no idea what’s going on next and can’t wait to see. And maybe we could pick up the mailroom flick too from where we left off, if we've still extra brainpower and time~(unlikedly yeah, but say I try une phrase par jour on that, lol) =D

Jady 17:45 13th March 2006

***

She's dissecting me, like a threatening microscope. It's eccentric, isn't it? For a complete stranger to be staring at you so inquisitively, to count every freckle and every mole. What made me think she's counting my freckles? Not that I'm overly conscious but the way her translucent grey eyes scan up and down suggests an almost ridiculous possibility. Oh, God, my stomach is cringing. I wish it would disappear but it hangs on like a devilish malignancy. A storm is coming. Where is he? The dark clouds are rolling in. It should be the right place, the right time. Did I accidentally confuse myself? Half the sky is already eaten up alive. Damn, where is he? I started wrestling my thumb with my forefinger, a perpetual habit whenever I felt an omen. There she is again, RI-KO, examining my reddened fingers with a tickling smile in her eyes. I was suddenly enraged and slapped my palm on the wooden table. She was startled, but in no time resumed her usual amused look. Thoroughly defeated, I took out my cell phone and checked the record: private number.

I was about to throw in some plot development, like why she's so anxious and a possible hint of who she could be waiting for. But, it's more fun leaving it to you Jady hahaha.

Jude 16:34 14th March 2006

***

Now, a private number isn't something Alice usually gets. As an introverted, private girl, she shies away from strangers and just keeps to a handful of close friends and, and her phone book has just them. At this moment she is nonplussed, and even more puzzled when she realized: the missed call was only five minutes ago. ‘How could that be?' The question hovers in her head. 'I could not have possibly missed to hear the ring, even if the pocket muffles the sound a little.' The mid-aged woman still sits where she was, intently gazing, an eyebrow flinched ever so slightly when she saw Alice lost in thoughts over the phone screen. What she wants to know, we can't know for the moment now, for the heavy clouds finally and all too suddenly broke into a great downpour, and with little ceremony and perhaps to much relief of Alice, they hurriedly parted. Alice took special attention to the direction the older woman was heading, who now seemed even more eager to flee the pounding rain than her previous interest in observing her. Pushing that thought aside, she darted in quite the opposite direction, running for the one nearest shelter she knew.
**
Diary, 23 August
The existence of this diary is dangerous now. I see the clues piecing together, little by little they start to fall into place, but the strings are tightening too..and I fear. I fear that once they know which strings to pull and which trail to go down, all would crumble, and that which I dread would finally happen. I long for Campbell. Campbell, where could you possibly be? I keep having dreams about you, good ones and nightmares. I am lost in this land, all but deserted, disconnected, hopeless except for one lead..but for now, she is lost too. When I realized I forgot to put the waterproof sheath on me this morning and had to hurry away in the terrible afternoon rain, I looked back once and saw her running down the beach, towards the log house perhaps. I hope she's okay, and I hope I could still find her tomorrow where I believe she would be. But for now, I need to worry for food, and shower...the lesions are getting worse still, in just two days...but I do not want to die, not yet, not perishing in this old, deserted water factory, among all the rusting pipes and no one has any inkling. I think I need to get some more fish and salt now.
18:52 (signed) Elisa.

Laughs—here's my new many strange ends and developments for your entertainment..I know some of them probably makes little sense, but hey, the marathon thing is about being coherent and then have as much fun setting road-blocks and quantum tunnels and whatever for the other mind, so choose what you choose, leave aside whatever you want to leave, and we'll see. ^^

Jady 02:57 24th March 2006

***

event log

Purely for housekeeping:

1 mai
- got rid of the original olive bg and changed to the current cappucino tinge. widened the mainblog box. added permalink etc standard ones.

avril
- applied caz's coffee time template. added blogger search bar.

26 mars
- changed bg color to crimson. how do you find it?
- added technorati yesterday and firefox icon today.
- added permalink to the dateheader, and comments now come in pop-up form.

24 mars
- changed intro

as of 13th mars 2006 we
- removed the blogger bar at the top, finally..
- added pull-down menu for archive and recent posts
- rearranged the very incomplete links

yet/proposed to do:
- change the light yellow grey background to another color/pattern? - no.
- and more poring over html tutorials for me..now I want to do a 'map' code on everything..the onset of mania, tata~

hohoho no updates for very long! here's something interesting relating to rufus wainwright.. and in case you are wondering who wrote it, it's the wife of the philo prof of the philo course i took 1.5 yrs ago. she's a literature prof who writes and teaches greek at NUS, if my info is correct. kinda fun. ^^