The Sloth Girl

I accidently saw a Fran Lebowitz video on youtube, in which she talked about her sloth like habit and her indolence. I feel like sloth too, for example, today. Other than reading books, I am motivated to do nothing at all. There are quite a lot of things to do—laundry, checkbook balancing, vacuuming, shopping for peeled fava beans, recording all expenditures. There are piles of things to do, but zero enthusiasm in doing them. What is going to become of me? Probably I can blame the internet, amazon kindle, my own disposition. Cooking doesn’t interest me much anymore and I often survive on a diet of soymilk and bread. The problem is that  the soymilk from the store is not to my taste—for example the Silk brand soymilk that taste more like an artificial nutrition mix. I have to make my own soymilk from soy powder. Still it is much better than cooking stir fry dishes every day. Well, even though it’s better than cooking, I kind of don’t want to do it. Often I have to suffer several days without homemade soymilk before I can garner enough energy to make a big pot of it myself. How lazy a person can become?

I have the book “The Fran Lebowitz Reader”, the kindle version, and I often regret that she hasn’t been writing books for many years. She talked about this very often in her videos, in her very charming way. She is very critical but her manners are quite suave and pleasant—there’s a contradiction in this. Because of her critical attitude, she hasn’t been able write. It’s my opinion. An author often needs to love herself enough to complement herself, stubborn enough to continue whatever she’s doing, complacent enough to fancy people want to read what she has to write. Fran Lebowitz is too sharp and too critical about her own writing to make her own writing excruciating to herself. That’s just my opinion. And I think she probably will scowl at me if she hears this. A lot of fans of writers want to meet their favorite authors, but I have never had such desire. I am quite satisfied in admiring the producers of my literary fancy from a distance, enjoying their products on my kindle reader. The meeting of my favorite writer might kill my favorable opinions of them. I wouldn’t go so far as to say familiarity broods contempt, but I am certain familiarity will reveal the unfortunate but inevitable human foibles that I might not wish to find in my cherished writers.

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