I read a novel recently called Tolstoy Lied. The premise is that, as the title implies, Tolstoy lied in that first line of Anna Karenina. The protagonist, a twentieth-century American literature professor, thinks his claim makes happiness seem boring. If all happy families are alike, then how are they possibly interesting? What is it about tragedy that fascinates us, as readers and human beings? She has also consciously chosen to be single, since her philosophy is that happiness does not require a family.

That is definitely not how I interpreted that line. I read it as saying that happy people have happiness in common, but not the things that make them happy or their expressions of happiness. But maybe that's the key distinction. A happy person is not necessarily part of a happy family. I think there are more commonalities between happy families than happy people, just because a family is an institution. Once you're in a family, you're a wheel in the machine, making it hum along smoothly and generate domestic bliss. Let's say families are like cars. They could be shiny Mercedes-Benzes or beat up Hondas, but if they're happy, they'll take you where you're going. The unhappy ones sit in the junkyard. So if I had to accept a generalization, I would say that Tolstoy actually was pretty close to the mark. But if you take apart that car/family, then look at all those little pieces! A piston is not a steering wheel is not a windshield wiper. Happy families may all be alike, but every happy person is happy in their own way.

I definitely did not expect that to turn into an automobile analogy. Go figure.

My mom gave me Tolstoy Lied for Christmas last year, and it was part of the reason why I made myself read Anna Karenina. It seemed like the logical order. After I finished Anna Karenina, I talked about it with my mom, I told her about my confusion regarding Anna. I somehow went into the novel expecting that I should feel sorry for her, that I should like her, so I was a little surprised that she was probably my least favorite of them all. Mom thought that was part of the novel's appeal, that all of the people are so flawed. I should point out that the first time I heard that opening line was from her, many, many years ago; Mom said it's one of her favorite lines in literature. She especially remembered Anna's selfishness, but that didn't bother me so much while I was reading. What irked me most was her dependence, her need to make her decisions based on the actions of her men. Granted, that partly a product of the novel's time, and I am very glad women today don't have to live like that. But it was a character thing too. 

I would like to get married one day, but right now I'm too selfish to really consider it. Like Madame Karenina, I want it all. And I do wonder if, rather than have an affair and end up under a train, I will go about having it all by avoiding the matrimony thing altogether, either by choice or by accident. But that prospect doesn't scare me. I mean, the times I've been involved with guys, I usually turn into a mildly obsessive (and probably annoying) basket case. I'm good by myself.

Tolstoy Lied was a good book. Not perfect, not by a long shot. And although the ending wasn't bad per se, I sort of wanted it to resolve differently. But it was the right book at the right time. The subject matter exactly in tune with what had been on my mind recently, due to the weddings, flings, and agonizings about both that happened this summer. And it's a fantastically nerdy concept, a love story seen through a literary criticism lens. I wanted to read lit theory when I was done. Also within ten minutes of finishing, I knew two friends who I wanted to pass it along to (one of them has it now), which rarely happens when I finish a novel. It's the sort of reaction I live for, a book that's compelling, that I want to share and talk about and write about and analyze. It's the sort of novel I want to write. But that's another story.

This weekend my college roommate got married. I hadn't been to a wedding since I was...maybe four? I didn't go to the actual ceremony at the mosque, but I did attend the mehndi and the shadi. The mehndi is for the women only; it's often the ceremony when everyone gets henna, but since there were about 50 ladies in attendance, that didn't happen. But there were skits and dancers, including yours truly. It was a very sweet, if a little surreal, experience to be there. There's this whole side to Muslim women that only other Muslim women really get to see. I was definitely the odd one out at the mehndi: white, non-Muslim, and about a head taller than everyone but the bride. But lots of the others said I danced just like an Indian girl, which I'm quite proud of. The reception (shadi) was a similar experience, but I managed to successfully wear a sari and again garner several compliments from both friends and strangers. I also had a companion in Laura, and we asked lots of questions of our Indian-wedding-savvy friends. The approach to this engagement was based on religion and culture one. She was expected to get married pretty soon after college, and the union was formed out of mutual respect and shared faith, with the trust that they would grow to love each other. And I am very certain that they will be happy together.

The day after the shadi, three friends gathered at the kitchen table with a bottle of wine and shared the latest news in our own love lives. Quite a change from watching the newlyweds hold hands for the first time, smiling and shyly averting their eyes. I don't think that a union based on shared ideology is more stable than one based on love and passion, but I do see a lot of sense in it. However, this is one realm in my exceedingly rational life where I am not terribly sensible. A marriage like hers might save you from some of the mild agonies that my friends and I confided in each other, yet I know my own past heartbreak was a life experience that I needed. Freedom comes with equal parts of power and peril, risk and reward. I may have known that subconsciously before, but I never quite articulated it to myself.

So in sum, it was a good weekend. I'm glad that I can be sincerely happy for my friends who are ready to be married, but not feel like I'm somehow behind the curve because I don't want the same thing. In fact, I don't know what I want, except to enjoy the ride and end up at a destination where I'm happy. So be it.

The Rent soundtrack popped up on my itunes shuffle last night. I knew plenty of people in college who were romanced by the idea of free spirits and artists living together and becoming family on the gritty streets of New York. It's a great vision when you ignore the whole AIDS and heroin addiction part, and it does still have a strong pull for me. I sometimes entertain the idea of quitting the working world, taking odd jobs where I could get them and just devote myself to writing. I wouldn't be able to afford distractions like tv, internet, or nice meals out, so I'd have to write to keep from going insane. But that's, as Maureen sings, a leap of faith. It's terrifying to think about trashing the lifestyle you've had for the past twenty-two years. How do you keep from getting evicted or contracting an STD? It would take real dedication to your art (or to something) to make that kind of decision. Besides, an important part of la vie boheme seems to be that you are a starving artists, unappreciated by the masses. But part of the drive to write, for me at least, is that you want people to read your work. That doesn't seem to fit in with the creedo.

I got my first look at the new upstairs neighbors on my way out to brunch today. They were smoking with a guy on the front steps. I only saw one of them face-on and she looks like a real chav. Blonde highlights and heavy eyeliner, the works. And I confess, I felt really indignant. What are they doing in my neighborhood? I don't think I'm entitled to this little self-righteous statement, but I think it will definitely be time to move after this year. Which is sad, because I love where this neighborhood is. I may not be able to commit to bohemia, but I dread being part of the new bourgeoisie. Speaking of which, I read David Brooks' book "Bobos in Paradise" a couple years ago; I think I'd read it with a very different eye today. Just like I want to be bohemian without being completely broke, I want to live someplace where I don't fear for my life without being a cookie-cutter ivory tower.

I've got to stop over-thinking these things.

One of Cary Grant's earliest starring roles was in a movie called "Holiday," which IMDB tells me was released in 1938. I saw it several years ago with my family, so I'm a little hazy on the details, but the basic premise is that Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn are engaged. She's a witty but rather traditional gal, but he's a sort of loose cannon. His philosophy for life is that it would make more sense for people to play while they are young and then go to work when they're older. Why spend all your energy and vitality on just making money when you could be doing crazy and impetuous things?

I had dinner with my college roommate this evening and she mentioned that she was still working out what she wanted to do in regard to grad school. She said that in India, students choose their career tracks in high school and rarely if ever deviate from that path over their years of schooling and then work. It's strange how we place such an emphasis now on 'finding yourself' and taking time to find your life's work. But as "Holiday" shows, it's not exactly a new idea. And I know I've written before about the split between people who live to work versus those who work to live. It's like a penny with heads and tails: one piece of metal, two different impressions graven in the surface.

It's no secret that I fall on the work to live side. I wonder whether that is a function of age. For someone who is independent for the first time, the mere fact that I am a self-supporting adult still hasn't fully sunk in. It feels like a game, like playing house when I was six. It's hard to really believe any of it is happening. And I don't like being in that limbo. I really think it's a symptom of growing up sheltered and suburban. Our parents and grandparents seemed to have a clear mission of wanting to pass on a better life to their children, and people my age are benefiting from several generations of hard work and chasing the American Dream. But somehow that drive doesn't quite seem to have been passed on to us. The desire for betterment is mostly inward, whether it's in the pursuit of the right career, the right appearance, the right relationships. We've been called the generation of entitlement. We're selfish; not in the miserly, money-hoarding sense, but in a human sense. And it isn't just happening with people my age; it's spreading out to those older and younger. The vague territory of 'moral values' factor into our politics and our personal beliefs, but what are they? Instead of 'honesty' and 'honor' we seek out 'happiness.' Living the good life used to mean family, manners, work ethic, and probably a healthy dose of religion. Now it's a hip-hop ditty about money, fame, and glamour.

It would be easy to devolve into a rant about declining morals, kids these days, and whatnot, but the mere existence of a movie like "Holiday" shows that it just isn't true. The old days had plenty of problems; we're just much freer about acknowledging them now. And I don't think there's anything wrong with wanting happiness or living the good life of Kanye West. In fact, I used to wish for happiness when I blew out my birthday candles and I really like Mr. West's song and video. But I do think that life needs balance. Maybe with the right elements of the old times, it wouldn't just be the good life. It could be great.

My friends, we need to grow up.

I have mixed feelings about fate. Mostly, I think it's a silly idea. You make the most out of your situation and try to pull all the good out of it. You work for what you want and make it happen. But where's the line between taking out obstacles and knowing when the world is telling you to give it a rest? I had a writing spot that seemed like a dead lock fall through. I'm actually not broken up about it, since it would be a series of 80-word reviews, which doesn't give much space to wow potential employers. But it would have been nice to get published, 80 more words in print than I have now.

When I did NaNoWriMo, we got pep talk emails from published authors. Here's what Neil Gaiman said:
"You write. That's the hard bit that nobody sees. You write on the good days and you write on the lousy days. Like a shark, you have to keep moving forward or you die. Writing may or may not be your salvation; it might or might not be your destiny. But that does not matter. What matters right now are the words, one after another. Find the next word. Write it down. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat."

I love the line about the shark. But I think that for me, even though my initial response was 'Wow, that's really cynical,' Julianna Baggot's advice was more useful:
"Polish your jealousy to a high shine - like the chrome of a well-loved Mustang.......Ditto the chip on your shoulder. Treat it well. Feed it crackers, and maybe it'll turn into a blue parakeet - one of those blue ones who knows how to cuss."

I am a jealous person. It's the real reason for my deep loathing of people like Kiera Knightley: she's famous, gorgeous, doing what she wants to do, and is my age. I can't stand that. It's just so infuriatingly unfair. I was jealous of the really talented people in my writing classes, two boys in particular. They were the department darlings: professors loved them and their work. One ran the literary magazine and the other had already published a successful novel in China. I hated them both a little. I'm not proud of that facet of myself, but at least it's not so crippling that it ruins my friendships or totally paralyzes my own ambitions.

I guess that's where the fate thing comes in. Are the Kiera Knightleys of the world sent out just to make the rest of us berate ourselves and quench our delusions of grandeur? What's the line between blind ambition and blind foolishness? I don't really expect answers; it depends on the person, the situation, etc. Honestly, though, I really don't think that people are ever destined to be one certain thing. The word 'destined' doesn't quite encompass how much work goes into reaching a goal, achieving a dream. If your desires just appear without your trying, then you are very lucky. And yes, I am very jealous of you.