Shipwrecked on a Deserted Island (or the Books and Films I Really Love)
Dedicated to Joy (and incidentally for OCSHA)
Soaking wet with sea water, choking and three-quarters drowned, I would drag ashore Foreign Affairs by Alison Lurie, the Bible, the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis in a special edition, Ben Hur by General Lew Wallace, and finally, David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. There. That ought to keep my apparently benighted existence busy for some time.
These marvelous classics and Pulitzer-Prize winners would, of course, defy destruction, though any lesser books perish. The Bible, after all, has survived translation. A little water is nothing after such a trial.
The sun beats down harshly on my yellow, soon to be brown, then peeling red, skin. I ponder what to do. Then I stare at the books. The books, stacked neatly on the beach, peer back innocently.
Look about for food? Build a shelter for myself? Read the survival book I did not bring because I could only save five books? Pshaw! No, I will nourish my mind! That, or die. I realize that I will, actually, and hastily withdraw the thought.
.
First, I would read the Bible, analyzing and symbolizing its many puzzles. By the time I am finished, I plan to have accepted God and Christ as my savior and so have my soul saved, if not my corporeal body, which would be slowly shrinking from its ample reserves.
Next I would read David Copperfield, for the very reason that it is as fat as the Cheshire Cat but much more charming. As I bask in the shade of a palm tree, probably starving to death, this book would sustain me in my hunger. I can always eat it. I could chew—literally—through the story as darling David embarks on his sprawling journey of self-discovery.
I rummage around in my dripping bag for a snack that can be salvaged. I doubt anything edible can—wait—can it be—a rectangular, flat shape—crackers—no—a video! No, videos! I am loved, I am blessed.
For what have I saved but the irrepressible Rory O'Shea Was Here, a movie that was touching, hilarious, and ultimately, heart-wrenching. And there is more!
Christmas, thou canst not compare. Flee, inferior season! Come, joy, to me, to me! Dancer, Prancer, Vixen—I become a little carried away by the sleigh of my delirious happiness.
And in my unworthy container lies Green Snake, Bright Young Things, Gandhi, and Wimbledon.
To my delight and utter shock, I discover a television with a video player conveniently situated nearby. A moldering skeleton sits propped in the chair in front of the screen, but I discreetly move it out of the way and take its place.
Something feels ... not right.
Ah, I see! I take the remote control from the corpse's rotting hand, pop in Bright Young Things, and prepare to be lavishly entertained by this social satire as I nibble—mentally—on the light-hearted and funny Foreign Affairs.
Then comes Wimbledon, with its cute, witty cast and script, and Green Snake, a deliriously beautiful film of silk and sensuality.
Cooing adoringly, I fawn over the faun Mr. Tumnus in Chronicles of Narnia, berate Eustace and Jill, kiss Peter soundly on the lips, and pat Lucy on the head.
Gandhi tastes terrible, but the movie is inspiring. Ben Kingsley transforms amazingly, I think as I spit out a corner of the tape.
Ben Hur comes last, as I wish to beat the main character about the face very painfully before I become like my rather dead companion sprawled ungracefully beside me.
I then sit back and expect to die.
Soaking wet with sea water, choking and three-quarters drowned, I would drag ashore Foreign Affairs by Alison Lurie, the Bible, the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis in a special edition, Ben Hur by General Lew Wallace, and finally, David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. There. That ought to keep my apparently benighted existence busy for some time.
These marvelous classics and Pulitzer-Prize winners would, of course, defy destruction, though any lesser books perish. The Bible, after all, has survived translation. A little water is nothing after such a trial.
The sun beats down harshly on my yellow, soon to be brown, then peeling red, skin. I ponder what to do. Then I stare at the books. The books, stacked neatly on the beach, peer back innocently.
Look about for food? Build a shelter for myself? Read the survival book I did not bring because I could only save five books? Pshaw! No, I will nourish my mind! That, or die. I realize that I will, actually, and hastily withdraw the thought.
.
First, I would read the Bible, analyzing and symbolizing its many puzzles. By the time I am finished, I plan to have accepted God and Christ as my savior and so have my soul saved, if not my corporeal body, which would be slowly shrinking from its ample reserves.
Next I would read David Copperfield, for the very reason that it is as fat as the Cheshire Cat but much more charming. As I bask in the shade of a palm tree, probably starving to death, this book would sustain me in my hunger. I can always eat it. I could chew—literally—through the story as darling David embarks on his sprawling journey of self-discovery.
I rummage around in my dripping bag for a snack that can be salvaged. I doubt anything edible can—wait—can it be—a rectangular, flat shape—crackers—no—a video! No, videos! I am loved, I am blessed.
For what have I saved but the irrepressible Rory O'Shea Was Here, a movie that was touching, hilarious, and ultimately, heart-wrenching. And there is more!
Christmas, thou canst not compare. Flee, inferior season! Come, joy, to me, to me! Dancer, Prancer, Vixen—I become a little carried away by the sleigh of my delirious happiness.
And in my unworthy container lies Green Snake, Bright Young Things, Gandhi, and Wimbledon.
To my delight and utter shock, I discover a television with a video player conveniently situated nearby. A moldering skeleton sits propped in the chair in front of the screen, but I discreetly move it out of the way and take its place.
Something feels ... not right.
Ah, I see! I take the remote control from the corpse's rotting hand, pop in Bright Young Things, and prepare to be lavishly entertained by this social satire as I nibble—mentally—on the light-hearted and funny Foreign Affairs.
Then comes Wimbledon, with its cute, witty cast and script, and Green Snake, a deliriously beautiful film of silk and sensuality.
Cooing adoringly, I fawn over the faun Mr. Tumnus in Chronicles of Narnia, berate Eustace and Jill, kiss Peter soundly on the lips, and pat Lucy on the head.
Gandhi tastes terrible, but the movie is inspiring. Ben Kingsley transforms amazingly, I think as I spit out a corner of the tape.
Ben Hur comes last, as I wish to beat the main character about the face very painfully before I become like my rather dead companion sprawled ungracefully beside me.
I then sit back and expect to die.
that was very amusing. i liked it a lot.
<3 always, joy
Posted by
joy...! |
4:26 PM