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Tag Archives: books

To my love on Valentine’s Day

14 Wednesday Feb 2018

Posted by Betty Zhang in Poems

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Tags

books, f scott fitzgerald, literature, love, poem, poet, poetry, romance, valentines day, writer, writing

Fitzgeralds-Passport.jpg

Hair: blonde
Eyes: green
Height: 5”8’

Signed in your cursive hand,
Each letter a musical note
So soft and so lovely,
How befitting an ode.

But darling you’re black and white
And try as I might,
I can’t seem to get it right:

Blonde hair but how blonde?
Green eyes but what green?

5”8’ I can see in the mirror,
‘Kinda short for a fella,’ I’d say
If I didn’t already know ya;
We’d stand shoulder to shoulder, but
For you I’d make an exception:
A song by Leonard Cohen.

And to be perfectly practical,
I don’t have to stand on your books
To kiss you though that’d be cute—
Catch me if I fall, though maybe I would fall
Just to fall into you.
Then we’d both be on the floor,
I’d land on your chest,
Crease that three-piece suit,
Tousle your hair, loosen that tie,
Tease till finally you pin me down,
Messed-up hair falling in your eyes
Pale gold and baby emerald, diamond-bright.

Blonde but how blonde?
A darkish blonde I imagine, the prettiest kind Save for Marilyn’s.
Green but what green?
The clear bright green of a river at the height of summer I imagine, the kind doomed Lovers would like if I’m Wright.

You’d make a dashing actor Love,
Actually they cast those to play you and your characters:
Leo and Tom and Brad and Matt,
Million dollar men, young and beautiful,
Blessed with beauty and rage.

Hollywood’s love bloomed late,
Poor fate, you thought
Broke and broken, maybe long forgotten
—Never more false! Love,
You’re alive again, risen from the debt
They owe to you.
Your name, your books,
You’re Lazarus wearing Adonis’ face;
Boy, the shows and movies they make
You have to see to believe.

Your timeless quintet and more,
In jackets of turquoise I adore,
Crazy in love, j’adore
F. Scott Fitzgerald in elegant font,
Honestly I’ve never been so fond—

Oh! Tender was
Your heart till it fell apart,
Broken instrument I fancy
Mending into art!

Still art thou black and white,
Long ago departed from life.
Love thee true I do
Yet be thy wife
I never could—
All I can do is write.

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Lo, lit! Ah.

26 Monday Jun 2017

Posted by Betty Zhang in Notes

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

books, english, english literature, lit, literature, writer, writing

lolita movieLiterature

Literature about literature

Literature about literature about literature

Lit of my life, fire of my lores!

My thing, my thought.

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My Anglo-American Christmas

27 Tuesday Dec 2016

Posted by Betty Zhang in Opinion

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

america, books, charles dickens, christmas, cinema, culture, england, family, film, food, harry potter, history, holidays, j. k. rowling, life, memory, movie, music, nostalgia, pop culture, reading, television

vintage christmas.jpg

I am Chinese, my family is small and we are not religious. We don’t do gifts and parties, nor do we transform our home into a tricolour tinsel and cedar wonderland. I never even believed in Santa, thanks to my mother’s casual ‘Santa and magic and stuff are not real, it’s all made up’ when I was very young.

For Christians, Christmas is the birth of Jesus. For the non-religious, it is about Santa, reindeers, and snow. For us, it is a time to eat together: we mark the day celebrated by many with food and family, the pillars of Chinese culture, and I would not have it any other way.

But Christmas itself—be your take on it Christian or capitalist—is not Chinese, no matter how I celebrate it. Christmas in my mind is a kaleidoscope of Anglo-American sights and sounds. Continue reading →

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Excerpt from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce

01 Thursday Dec 2016

Posted by Betty Zhang in Beauty

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Tags

a portrait of the artist as a young man, book, books, james joyce, lit, literature, quote, writer, writing

james joyce.jpg

How beautiful and sad that was! How beautiful the words were when they said BURY ME IN THE OLD CHURCHYARD! A tremor passed over his body. How sad and how beautiful! He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music. The bell! The bell! Farewell! O Farewell!

Reader, whenever I post a quote, know that it is because I found the words profoundly beautiful; know that I was saddened to find that their sadness echoed my own; know, if you can, how words on a page move me so.

Passage, beautiful, inky temptress, I pressed my fingertips on your imprint hoping you’d seep inside and stay.

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A letter to James Dean on sensitivity, introversion, & metaphysical relationships

10 Thursday Nov 2016

Posted by Betty Zhang in Letters

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Tags

arts, books, celebrities, cinema, culture, hollywood, introvert, james dean, letter, literature, mind, prose, writer, writing

james dean.jpg

Dear James,

The following quote has been attributed to you but I’m not sure if you actually said it as there’s some debate online regarding its origin.

Am I in love? Absolutely. I’m in love with ancient philosophers, foreign painters, classic authors, and musicians who have died long ago. I’m a passionate lover. I fawn over these people. I have given them my heart and my soul. The trouble is, I’m unable to love anyone tangible. I have sacrificed a physical bond, for a metaphysical relationship. I am the ultimate idealistic lover.

For the sake of this letter and my sanity I’m going to assume that those words did spring from that solitary, sensitive soul of yours, because Continue reading →

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Litbaits: click and ye shall find!

30 Tuesday Aug 2016

Posted by Betty Zhang in Uncategorized

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Tags

blogging, book, books, creative, humor, internet, literature, parody, reading, writer, writing

the lion the witch and the wardrobe

  • Children Disappear Into Wardrobe, Emerge With Tale Of Talking Jesus Lion →
  • Criminals Hate Him! Crackhead Detective Can’t Stop Solving Crimes →
  • Hot Russian Woman Cheats On Husband, Gets SMASHED By Train →
  • Egomaniac Boss Ignores Extensive Warnings About No Good March Day, Brutally Stabbed To Death By Right-hand Man →
  • American Girl Abroad Too Flirty For Her Own Good, Dies →
  • Sex Maniac Father Obsessed With 12-Year-Old Stepdaughter: You Won’t Believe What He Did To Her! →
  • Scientists Are Baffled! Virgin Gives Birth To Miracle Baby; Who’s The Father?! →
  • Old And Ugly As Sin: You Won’t Recognise Dorian Gray In His Last Selfie →
  • They Locked Him In A Cupboard Under The Stairs, Who He Turned Out To Be Is His Best Revenge →
  • Meet The Shady Mogul Who Throws Extravagant Parties To Lure “Love Of His Life”—What He Said To Her Will Shock You! →
  • She Tried To Kill Herself, Doctors Fried Her Brains! →

* With reverent apologies to: C. S. Lewis; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; Leo Tolstoy; William Shakespeare; Henry James; Vladimir Nabokov; Oscar Wilde; J. K. Rowling; F. Scott Fitzgerald; Sylvia Plath. 

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In defence of art

09 Tuesday Aug 2016

Posted by Betty Zhang in Opinion

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Tags

art, arts, Beauty, books, culture, literature, love, music, poem, poetry, prose, world, writer, writing

Bowie-1975-e1452703772242.jpg

Architects design buildings, which are then built and maintained by builders, plumbers, and electricians. These buildings provide necessary living and working spaces for residents and professionals who, in turn, contribute to their society and economy. Politicians govern, lawyers defend, doctors save lives, businesses of all shapes and sizes provide essential goods and services. Scientists, physicists, engineers, and astronomers brought humanity to the moon. The world as we know it will not cease to exist without art and its practitioners but without moonage daydreamers, boy wizards, star-crossed lovers and those whose passion or profession it is to observe, think, analyse, and create, Earth is merely that which orbits the Sun, a celestial body where the passage of time is marked by births, deaths, and unexamined lives.

So here’s to poems about nature and beauty, songs about love, books that changed the world, and paintings that bewitch with their illusions of light and movement; here’s to films that enchant and inspire, to great teachers and their scholars, to thinkers, poets, writers, artists, composers, musicians, directors—to anyone who immortalised their human experience in art form.

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Sorry

02 Tuesday Aug 2016

Posted by Betty Zhang in Petit Passages

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Tags

anxiety, books, health, life, literature, poem, poetry, prose, thoughts, writer, writing

book-flatlay

‘Sorry,’ I said to the cashier at the art store because I took too long to grab my bags, of which I was carrying four. And I was sorry. ‘Sorry,’ I said again on my way out, because the shop was crowded with shelves and people and I was carrying one too many bags. I did not bump into anyone or knock anything off but still I was sorry for the time and space I took when exiting. And I was sorry many times before then because the aisles were narrow and I had to get through or somebody else had to get through, either way I was sorry I troubled the other shoppers. I went to a thrift shop next and I was sorry there too, sorry for the fact that the shirt I tried on did not suit me, sorry that I did not make a purchase and they have to put it back. ‘Sorry, that’s okay, thank you so much,’ I managed, this time at the music store, because the clerk could not locate the vinyl I wanted. I was sorry that he tried for me and wasted his time when he could be doing something else. Then I was sorry I was sorry because I had started to feel real bad for myself, because the only reason I kept apologising was this—this idea that I was unworthy of their services, someone who did not deserve their products or anything for that matter. And Uber—the convenience of it all and the patience of that particular driver—had me sorry too, four times if I remember it correctly: twice for having too many bags and twice more for being confused as to where he was parked; and he did not know this but I was sorry for seating at the back too, I would have ridden shot gun had I fewer bags to carry but he probably thought I was protecting myself from him. I was sorriest when I got home and looked at all that I had bought because I thought I did not deserve them. But later that night when I was well-rested and the boulder of existence lifted from my chest new copies of Hemingway, Pushkin and Yeats were read and felt and understood and I was not sorry anymore, I was soaring.

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Unwritten

18 Wednesday May 2016

Posted by Betty Zhang in Petit Passages

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Tags

anxiety, books, films, humor, literature, mental health, personal, prose, writer, writing

JAPAN-US-ENTERTAINMENT-CINEMA-GODZILLA

Sitting at the corner of my mind is a sprawling metropolis of abandoned ideas and incomplete drafts, all of them feverishly conceived. Some are penned in haste and barely legible, others the result of fingers tap dancing on screen. Continue reading →

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