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Posts tagged with "Oprah Winfrey"

And who can bear to be forgotten?

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I've just received an e-mail containing some astrological news regarding a 'webinar' given by Oprah Winfrey and Eckhart Tolle. (A 'webinar'? Is that a new Doctor Who monster?) Apparently, because more than half a million people tried to tune in (or whatever the computer term is) at the same time, the site crashed.

Once again at the innovative edge, multi-Aquarian Oprah is using technology to share enlightening ideas. She broke out of her own book club "box" of memoirs and novels with her choice of Eckhart Tolle's The New Earth, a book about humanity's turningpoint -- in his words, to "evolve or die." Oprah is lending her star power to this surge of consciousness by teaming up with Tolle for a 10-week webinar, with so many taking part that it zapped her site's server on Monday night.



I got to the phrase "evolve or die", and suddenly found myself experiencing turbulence. I think at that point, or soon after, I recalled that I had today, in another e-mail, quoted a phrase from Bowie's song Ricochet: "Who can bear to be forgotten?" In the e-mail I suggested it might be a relief to me.



Anyway, I had a sinking feeling, reading that phrase, that, well, if it comes to that, actually, I'm going to take the latter option. Not by choice, just by destiny or something like that. It's not the first time I've encountered the 'evolve or die' ultimatum, and not the first time I've had a sinking feeling about it as I look around my room, full of urgently scribbled manuscripts that perhaps no one will ever read. For all the fact that I mumble about turning points, awakenings and enlightenment with cyclical frequency on this blog, I tend to feel that, when it comes right down to it, I'm really more in the chaff category than the wheat. I am, indeed, a lost cause, in all that I think, feel, do, see, hope, remember, fear, recontextualise, worship, abominate and sniff. I am on the losing side - you know, the one that doesn't write history, or make it. I am not one of those whom Noah the Second will be ushering onto the Ark. I am a solo unicorn, tossing my horn in a resigned sort of manner as the flood waters rise higher and, after shutting the Ark-door thing behind the two loved-up silverfish, Noah II slaps his forehead and says, "Hang on, I think I've forgotten something. Oh well, I suppose it wasn't important."

That's me, that is.

By the way, I have noticed that a lot of the people coming to my blog via a Google search are doing the search 'Eckhart Tolle skeptic/sceptic'. Maybe I should explain that I'm not a skeptic as such. I'm someone who's pretty interested in Tolle in a profoundly uncomitted sort of way. But I am not, and never have been 'a skeptic' - probably not about anything, if it comes to that. I mean, I've been skeptical, but not 'a skeptic', which sounds like another Doctor Who monster. Doctor Who and the Invasion of the Skeptics, or something. There's even a Skeptic's Dictionary online. You're probably best off going there if you're looking for full-on skeptic stuff, where you can be guaranteed that whatever the entry is, the definition of it will be a supercilious declaration of disbelief. I mean, who are these people who spend their whole lives going around looking for things not to believe in, and then putting them in alphabetical order? So, I'm not really a skeptic. If Tolle is sincere in what he says then he doesn't want to be treated as a guru anyway, and if he's not sincere in what he says then... Please finish that sentence on your own.

So, to get back to what I was saying, I have encountered this 'evolve or die' thing before, largely in the work of one of my favourite writers, housewives' favourite, Mr William Burroughs. I quote:

Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape.



Again, the sinking feeling. A very big sinking feeling. A sinking feeling, in fact, the size of the Titanic.



Oh well.

I don't think I can leave behind everything I've ever believed in. I have tried. I tried last Wednesday. It didn't work. Pathetic, isn't it?

And then, I think, maybe it's not so bad dying with all these beliefs I have, which also have to die. Maybe it's not so bad standing on the deck of the ship which is my soul, and of which I am captain, and saluting to no one at all as I go down with it.

That's the way I shall die. I shall die with the wind in my heart and dust in my hair.

I shall die and be forgotten.

The Sanctimoniousness of Oprah Winfrey

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Don't read James fucking Frey, read Chomu!

I'm being lazy and constructing a blog entry out of bits and pieces I have lying around. Someone sent me this link, about the 'writer' James Frey. It deals with the fact that James Frey is now treated with suspicion because his book, A Million Little Pieces, supposedly a memoir of his recovery from drug addiction, was found to be (at least in parts) a fabrication; apparently he hadn't had some of the experiences that he claimed to. Frey has now written a new book, and there is speculation as to whether people and publishers will be interested in it or not, in light of the fact that he lied about his first book. Harper publisher Jonathan Burnham says:

The point is he's written a great novel, and by summer of 2008 people will be able to approach James Frey with a clearer mind. Time will have passed.

An unnamed editor from a 'commercial house', responds to this, thus:

I don't like the tone of that. It suggests that it is the 'people' who have the problem, i.e. they need a 'clearer mind' in order to see the true value of James Frey's writing. The man is a liar and a fake. He may be a good writer—it's not like you have a be a good person to be a good writer. Actually, most writers are horrible people. At the same time, I would have felt icky about paying someone that shady 7 figures. Does morality have any place in a bottom-line business? I'm not sure anymore.

I felt sufficiently provoked by the whole thing to write a comment, which may or may not actually be posted on the site in question. Anyway, I shall paste it here. This is what I wrote:

I think people are really missing the point about this whole James Frey thing. It only goes to show what a minuscule number of human beings actually understand what writing is. There's no such thing as a 'true story'. A story is A STORY. It's an interpretation of reality, and the point is not whether or not something 'really happened' (that only matters in law courts), the point is what it means to you as you read it.

So, the real question is, is James Frey a good writer? I really doubt it. I've read some excerpts of his 'prose', which was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. There was no precision there at all, it was all "you will be impressed by this!!!" And that's why he got the readers he deserved - readers who take everything literally - and why he has ended up with egg on his face.

As for the 'one editor at a commercial house', I'd like to put to him the question that is posed at the end of the film The Mission, "Is this just the way the world is, or is this the way we have made it?"

He asks, "Does morality have any place in a bottom-line business?"

I very much suspect the answer is, "No, thanks to people like you."

Well, I wrote that comment quite hastily, so I didn't really have time to go into why James Frey is a bad writer. Apparently his book became a best-seller after he was recommended by Oprah Winfrey. She obviously has no idea what good writing is. It didn't take me long to discover that I hate Frey's writing. I even hate the title of his book. A Million Little Pieces. What is he trying to convey? "It was a really bad experience. It was so bad that, er, that it broke me in pieces. Yeah, that's right. It was really, really, really bad. So bad that I screamed and vomited and stuff like that, and I was literally broken into a million pieces. Well, not literally, but metaphorically, but you know what I mean. And drugs are bad, by the way, so don't do drugs. I've done them, because I'm tough and bad, but I've stopped doing them now, but it was really bad, and so am I, because I did them, but now I've stopped doing them, so I'm good, and bad, and tough."

That is my impersonation of James Frey. I'll excerpt from the actual book here, and see if you can spot the difference:

I wake to the drone of an airplane engine and the feeling of something warm dripping down my chin. I lift my hand to feel my face. My front four teeth are gone, I have a hole in my cheek, my nose is broken and my eyes are swollen nearly shut. I open them and I look around and I'm in the back of a plane and there's no one near me. I look at my clothes and my clothes are covered with a colorful mixture of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood. I reach for the call button and I find it and I push it and I wait and thirty seconds later an

Attendant arrives.
How can I help you?
Where am I going?
You don't know?
No.
You're going to Chicago, Sir.
How did I get here?
A Doctor and two men brought you on.
They say anything?
They talked to the Captain, Sir. We were told to let you sleep.
How long till we land?
About twenty minutes.
Thank you.
Although I never look up, I know she smiles and feels sorry for me. She shouldn't.

Some people (I can only deduce this from the fact that Oprah Winfrey championed this guy and he became a bestseller) actually read this shit and thought, "Wow, this is some writer." I suppose they think that a book should be a 'roller-coaster ride', or something like that. If you want a roller-coaster ride, visit a fairground. Now, I'm not saying that books can't be exciting. What I'm saying is, I wish people who were after buying and selling simple sensationalist thrills would not ruin the whole publishing scene by promoting the idea that that is what a book should be. A book is not a roller-coaster, and anyone who thinks it is is clearly showing their ignorance on the subject of writing. James Frey was writing books for people who know nothing about books, and was promoted by someone (Oprah) who clearly knows nothing about books, and so, when the readers discovered that the book wasn't 'real', he got what was coming to him. Any decent writer knows that books aren't real. Frey thought he could make money by duping people who know nothing about books into thinking it was real - believing it was real was the only way they could get the vulgar little roller-coaster ride they wanted. They were angry when they discovered the movement of the roller-coaster was simulated.

Afterwards, it seems, Oprah Winfrey wanted to crucify Frey on her show for lying (lying is what writers are paid for, for God's sake!). I don't feel sorry for Frey. If you play by the rules of an idiot game, this is what happens. And, because he played by those rules, he is also a bad writer. If only he had thrown the rules of the game back in the faces of those who had read his book and told them how stupid they were to believe it in the first place, perhaps the world would have been a slightly better place for us writers, but apparently he remains servile, undoubtedly for financial reasons.

Anyway, there is an alternative to Frey and Oprah.

Don't read Frey, read Chomu.

Don't waste your time watching The Bourne Ultimatum, read Chomu.