I figured it out. It's definitely her annoying style of writing, not the translation. I'm in the 12th chapter now, that means I have fought my way through 248 pages of name dropping, gossip and hurt feelings. But I intend to stick to it until the end. Even though it is a little hard sometimes on such a prudish little girl as I am. The whole book seems to be a huge justification for everything she ever did, making her look as good as possible while putting all the blame on David Bowie. Maybe that was to be expected. But I sit in silent wonder at this lack of self-critizism.

Something completely else:
60 years ago today, Anne Frank and her family were found and deported to German concentration camps.
I suppose just about evrybody has read her diary. We did in school. It was quite annoying, as most of the kids in my class were too immature to really understand what she wrote about. To me, the most striking feature of the book was how similar it was to any average girl's diary, how much Anne Frank tried to live a normal life in that back house in Amsterdam, even though she could never leave it and her life wasn't at all like that of her peers. This strong will to survive made the book special to me.
The general intention with our teachers was of course another lesson in "We bad Germans" and in the question of responsibility. I wrote my opinion about that several times before, I'm not going there again.
Anne Frank is the best way to learn that the victims of the Nazis were humans, with all good and bad sides. They weren't some kind of saints or angels. That doesn't make their lives and deaths less terrible. I'd rather say it makes it more easier to relate to them. They were people just as I am. Anne Frank gave a face and, more importantly, a mind and feelings to one of the many names of victims. That made the terrors of the time between 1933 and 1945 more real for me than anything I could read in history books.
Today I did something I usually don't. I'm reading what we Germans call "washing dirty laundry" - telling about your personal problems in a relationship, usually only done by celebrities because nobody's really interested in the dirty laundry of anybody else. In this case, I borrowed Angela Bowie's book about her time with David Bowie from the library. For one thing, the translation is terrible. Apparently, the translator tried to find a "cool" way of writing, using many English words, which makes me think they shouldn't have bothered to translate the book at all.
The other thing that first came to my mind when starting to read was this quote by William Congreve Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Maybe I do her wrong, I'm only through the introduction and the first chapter, but to me most of the things that don't tell about her own importance are just written to make DB look like the meanest, coldest, least caring person in the world. You'd think that sometime between the 60s and 1993, when she published the book, she had the time to look at things again and lose some of the anger she might have felt when the relationship broke up. Maybe it's just in the beginning of the book and gets better later, but right now it seems as if she was desperate to make some money, and the easiest way to do that was to talk about a celebrity she happened to know. It's like all these "I slept with..." chicks who tell details about the sexual preferences of some celebrity to any journalist that stays still long enough. The truth of these statements is something that can be doubted, and that's why I usually don't read this kind of thing. Don't ask me why I made an exception this time. Maybe because I'm just as nosy as everybody else. Or maybe I wanted to give her a chance to tell her story. I'm continuing to read in between writing this, and I am really doubtful whether I will manage to go on til the end. This translation is driving me crazy. Maybe the original is just as bad, maybe it's not the fault of the translators at all, but who knows.
The only thing that is quite clear from the book is that Angela Bowie knew it all before and that she was extremely good in whatever she did. *Yawn* Why couldn't she limit herself to the typical interview with the yellow press instead of writing a whole book? Again: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
[livejournal.com profile] plur_na_gaoithe posted a wonderful collection of David Bowie pics in her journal. I'm linking it without asking first, which isn't nice, I know. But they are just sooo cool. I'll ask now.
Something I forgot because of the bad weather and everything bothering me:
I had a wonderful night last night.
My dear friend Michael had told me that Arte, a German-French TV station would show some pieces of the Hurricane festival, were David Bowie performed right before his surgery. So I kicked my parents out of the living room yesterday night and stayed up to watch it. The first great thing was to see Ray Cokes doing the presentation, well known back from the times MTV was only in English. He did i in French, though, which sounded really cool. There also was a stupid girl from German TV there, but clearly Ray was the person who knew what he was doing, and she was just there to look good.
Anyway, I had to wait through The Hives, Franz Ferdinand, The Prodigy and several other bands before they finally announced the highlight of the show. Clearly, just as myself they considered David Bowie as the most important, best and greatest act at the festival. They only had three songs they showed on TV, All the young dudes, I'm afraid of Americans and Heroes. It was great. It's a pity our TV screen is not very large. I'd prefer something like movie theater size. But he is so impressive, he doesn't need all kinds of funny things like other singers, he doesn't need to tell the audience to clap with the rhythm. He's just there and everybody listens.
At the festival, there are people with very different tastes in music. With all the other bands, some people just sat around waiting for tht particular show to be over. But not with David Bowie.
It is all the more impressive knowing that right afterwards he had to have surgery. He must have felt something was wrong while he was up on stage, but he didn't show it. On the contrary, it seemed as if he had a really good time. He doesn't need to prove anything anymore. So he can just enjoy himself up on stage and have fun. That got communicated to the audience, I think, and that is what made the show so cool.
There was a little bit of The Cure after David Bowie, which was nice, too. I haven't heard much of them lately and they are still pretty good.
So when I went to bed last night - early today, actually - I was in a really good mood. And remembering it now cheers me up, too.
This is a text I wrote yesterday night, but couldn't post.

I just watched The man who fell to earth.
It was an almost indescribable feeling. With very little dialogue and powerful pictures, the movie transported so much meaning and emotion. I am overwhelmed and deeply moved.
I haven't found the meaning for myself yet. The impression is too fresh in my mind. I will have to think about it, call back to my inner eye some scenes and words.
Is it worth fighting the inevitable?
Is it worth hoping when - logically - all hope is gone?

On a lighter note, I was really happy to find that synchronization dropped out several times during the film, leaving us with subtitles that could be easily ignored. That way, I could get a wonderful, but oh so short "nothing" in David Bowie's original voice. (No kidding, at that moment he really said "nothing")
I don't know what it is with me that makes voices so important. If I don't like a voice, I usually don't like the person that comes with it.
On some stupid TV show somebody once said, a person with an English accent could ask them just about anything, and they'd do it. I guess that's true for me, too. I just love that sound.
Songs that seem to turn out to be my favorite DB songs:
Cactus
When I live my dream
Station to Station
Jump they say
Miracle Goodnight

brainwashed

Jul. 9th, 2004 09:48 pm
I'm sick and tired of telling you
don't let me down and down and down...

When I live my dreams
I take you with me...

I am happy
hope you're happy too...

The return of the thin white duke
throwing darts in lovers' eyes...

I got seven days to live my life
or seven ways to die...

I'm an absolute beginner
but I'm absolutely sane...

I have been listening to too much David Bowie lately. I can't get these lines out of my head.
That is, at least if you are David Bowie. You probably already know that sweets are bad for your teeth. But some fan(?) threw a lollipop at DB and hit him in the eye.
How weird can you get?
Let's say it was on purpose. So somebody either didn't like DB in the first place - then why buy the ticket to the concert? Or that person got extremly upset during the concert. Didn't they like the songs - or missed their personal favorites? Still no reason to throw hard and pointy objects on stage.
So lets suppose it was an accident. Somebody was just waving around with his hands, holding the lollipop, and happened to let go of it. Now what do you need to be licking a lollipop during a concert???
I guess I won't find a solution that makes sense to me. The paper said that DB yelled at the audience, because the stupid little sissy who threw the thing didn't dare to show themselves. Now that is something I can understand - the yelling, that is.

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dream_labyrinth

August 2012

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