I found myself blockaded this morning- a deluge of books that I haven't had a librarian catalogue yet had fallen down, blocking both entrances to the chateau. I was "booked in", to play on the American phrase "snowed in". Thus, I couldn't actually get out of the chateau today- I've been reading through each book that blocks the main entrance and discarding it when read- "digging through" the books, so to speak.
By noon I had my first visitor- I never have visitors before noon, so I occupied the morning by reading War and Peace, A Spot Of Bother, Pale Fire and so on- just a few books, no more than 50 in total. An Artist Of The Floating World caught my attention in particular- the whole "Floating World" allusion gave me an idea: to escape from my deluge of books faster, I could build a boat.
Obviously, a boat to move through the books- by now more had gathered, from where I don't know (once one surpasses a certain amount of books, one finds that they start to appear by themselves- like a bank account with a high interest rate), would not be a normal sort of boat. (That was a long sentence! I felt like Joyce for a bit there). This boat would obviously have to be built of editors, who happen to make books cower in their covers. When an editor is near a book, the text starts running into one another- an "a" runs into a "b", "z" runs into "!", "!" runs into "?" forming a "?!", ?!" goes into a pub and the proprietor asks "What sort of beer would you like?" and "?!", quite surprised by it's newly personified state, promptly becomes an alcoholic and ends up as a prostitute before writing a bestselling autobiography. Meanwhile, the proprietor of said pub runs into an entire sentence and everything gets very messy- they realize that they're old friends who haven't seen each other for years and stay fixedly in the center of the book, whilst pandemonium takes place before them. Eventually, logic simply gives up and the book vanishes in a puff of absurdity, all thanks to the editor.
So I place an ad in the newspaper for editors. I rang up the man and said "Hello"- "Hello Karl" he said, and I said- "How do you know it is me?", to which he replied "your Franco-German-Swedish accent is rather distinct", to which I agreed. Eventually I placed an ad for editors- specifically, ones who are legally blind without wearing glasses, and ones who have several critically-regarded authors under their Prada belts. Eventually these editors knocked at my door- I could see them arrive, flying through the air and landing on my doorstep with umbrellas a la Merry Poppins. The books cowered back. I fashion a microphone out of one of my high collars, and ordered them to form a boat.
"You are going to form a boat in an orderly fashion and then you will cruise through my front door"
"What's the angle you're going for, Karl?" one said.
"Research shows that if you paint your door purple it'll be more appealing to children" said another.
"If we change the colour of your grass to a logo of some sort- how about the Chanel logo- that'll be more appealing to the crucial 18-30 year old market" said yet another one.
Eventually they did form a boat- two hours later, after I had finally convinced them that my abode is chic and perfect and all I hired them to do is form a boat. They burst through the front door, as the books rearranged themselves into orderly piles- somewhat orderly, and attempted to disguise themselves as different things in order to avoid editing. One became a lamp. It has not yet changed back from a lamp- so I think I'm stuck with it! It's a very chic lamp, anyway, so I can't complain. The only Ayn Rand book I own (I was sent it by a perverse stalker who knows how much I loath Ms. Rand) turned into a pile of rubbish, and I had an assistant sweep it out. The rubbish-man came an hour later.
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Monday, December 14, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
A is for Accessories
Accessories:
Coco Chanel said that one should start with too many accessories and take one or more of them off. This is because Coco could not accessorise very well herself. When one puts on too many accessories in the first place, one risks somebody stylish walking in on them, and catching them with too many accessories on. Mon Chanel! How embarrassing! Imagine the look of this stylish person walking in on you and your overly-accessorised self, the shock in his or her face, the loss of whatever respect this person has for you. I myself sometimes do this at wherever I happen to be staying- I open every door of the hotel or castle or somesuch, trying to catch an over-accessoriser in the act. It is great fun for the catcher, but you don’t want to be the one caught!
More importantly- imagine your demode self, with one thousand and one accessories on. Imagine how trite and cheap you must look! Imagine how you might look like a goldmine to the men who may see you- not a goldmine they’re sexually attracted to; more like a goldmine where they’re going to approach the owner of wherever you’re staying at for the cost of the land rights to “that large heap of gold and silver that was laying in room one-oh-eight”. That large heap is you, over accessoriser. Non non non, that look is demode.
How is one meant to accessorise, in this case? What is this correct amount of accessories, hm?
I am not a mathematician- I’m not going to give you a formula. It is up to one’s own eye. What I do is I look at the person in question- in most cases it’s myself, occasionally a model. I observe their weight, their height, their hair colour, their favourite music and so on. Really eye this person up- is their neck particularly attractive- will a necklace enhance it? Is this person a fattie? Does this person have unattractive fingers? For instance, my own fingers are terrible- my mother used to tell me: “Don’t smoke Karl, because your hands are much too ugly for it and a cigarette will draw attention to it.” So I wear fingerless gloves and put many, many rings on my fingers. Yet if I had painterly fingers, it would not be acceptable to wear a million rings.
I choose to accessorise with high collars, sunglasses, fingerless gloves and rings- but I’m not going to tell you to wear this (I do hope you didn’t buy this book in order to justify your high collar habit- that’s your own problem.) However, I think everybody should wear sunglasses at least some of the time. Unless you are very stupid, or have very beautiful eyes, sunglasses act as a sort of disguise- a sort of eye shadow. Stupid people do not need a disguise because they’re too stupid to register anything anyway, hm? If one of the accessories you are wearing is sunglasses when your chic friend walks in on your overly-accessorising self, at least you can conceal an iota of your embarrassment.
Coco Chanel said that one should start with too many accessories and take one or more of them off. This is because Coco could not accessorise very well herself. When one puts on too many accessories in the first place, one risks somebody stylish walking in on them, and catching them with too many accessories on. Mon Chanel! How embarrassing! Imagine the look of this stylish person walking in on you and your overly-accessorised self, the shock in his or her face, the loss of whatever respect this person has for you. I myself sometimes do this at wherever I happen to be staying- I open every door of the hotel or castle or somesuch, trying to catch an over-accessoriser in the act. It is great fun for the catcher, but you don’t want to be the one caught!
More importantly- imagine your demode self, with one thousand and one accessories on. Imagine how trite and cheap you must look! Imagine how you might look like a goldmine to the men who may see you- not a goldmine they’re sexually attracted to; more like a goldmine where they’re going to approach the owner of wherever you’re staying at for the cost of the land rights to “that large heap of gold and silver that was laying in room one-oh-eight”. That large heap is you, over accessoriser. Non non non, that look is demode.
How is one meant to accessorise, in this case? What is this correct amount of accessories, hm?
I am not a mathematician- I’m not going to give you a formula. It is up to one’s own eye. What I do is I look at the person in question- in most cases it’s myself, occasionally a model. I observe their weight, their height, their hair colour, their favourite music and so on. Really eye this person up- is their neck particularly attractive- will a necklace enhance it? Is this person a fattie? Does this person have unattractive fingers? For instance, my own fingers are terrible- my mother used to tell me: “Don’t smoke Karl, because your hands are much too ugly for it and a cigarette will draw attention to it.” So I wear fingerless gloves and put many, many rings on my fingers. Yet if I had painterly fingers, it would not be acceptable to wear a million rings.
I choose to accessorise with high collars, sunglasses, fingerless gloves and rings- but I’m not going to tell you to wear this (I do hope you didn’t buy this book in order to justify your high collar habit- that’s your own problem.) However, I think everybody should wear sunglasses at least some of the time. Unless you are very stupid, or have very beautiful eyes, sunglasses act as a sort of disguise- a sort of eye shadow. Stupid people do not need a disguise because they’re too stupid to register anything anyway, hm? If one of the accessories you are wearing is sunglasses when your chic friend walks in on your overly-accessorising self, at least you can conceal an iota of your embarrassment.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Foreword to a book that might be posted whenever I feel like it
FOREWORD,
By Karl Lagerfeld.
One day, as I was taking off my quilted sleeping mask and ringing the bell beside my bed for my morning-butler, I felt an odd benevolent feeling surge within me. Non, it was not a surge- it was just a tickle. Now normally I equate “benevolence” with charitable old men, who are balding and senile. These old men probably are chairmen of a bank someplace, and they most likely have grandchildren whom they dote like a fashion designer dotes upon his mother. I do not have any grandchildren; banks bore me and I am most certainly not senile. Yet I felt slightly benevolent as I thought to myself: “I should write a book about how to live in a proper fashion.” Of course, this would mean helping people, as hardly anybody knows how to live these days. This itself led to a moral dilemma: do I really want to help people? Do they deserve my help, hmm? I debated this with myself for all of an hour, as I sketched out the latest Chanel collection. Yet this niggling charitable feeling simply would not go away, even as I practised my passive-aggressive face in the mirror. I pursed my lips, and eventually decided on a course of action. I would write this book, but only for the sake of posterity (like one might produce a great artwork, a great symphony or somesuch- I am writing this guide to living simply because it would be a crime not to.)
It is safe to assume that since you are reading this book you know who I am. On the chance that you’re some philistine who does not know who I am, some jam-brained sweat suit wearing fattie- well, just stop reading now. However, I’m going to introduce myself anyway. I did consider making one of my cohorts write an introduction- “Karl Lagerfeld is perhaps the most important fashion designer of the 20th and 21st centuries. Here is a man who is always relevant, who has produced more variations on the little black dress than Bach produced variations of the well tempered clavier…”- that sort of thing. I’d get someone people think of highly to write the introduction, whilst looking over their shoulder with a silver cane. Maybe Alber Elbaz, Anna Wintour- someone like that. In the end I couldn’t let somebody else write my introduction, I’m too selfish.
My name is Karl Lagerfeld (but you knew that, assuming you can read the front cover). I am the greatest fashion designer to ever walk this little planet- Chanel became a legend because of my designs, my genius. Before I came to Chanel, it was a near-comatose ugly stepsister, remembered by nobody. Coco Chanel was remembered primarily as the private call-girl to a Nazi and a decent businesswoman (I am not making this up, no joking here. You can look it all up if you don’t believe me). I revived Chanel solely through my own design genius. I also have designed almost every other collection worth noting, whether it is Comme des Garcons or Dior; every decent collection has been designed by me. Other designers put their names to these collections, yet I see the other “designers” scavenging around the bins outside my Parisian abode. They’re looking for the collections I’ve designed which are not good enough for me. Generally, they find them and take the sketches back to their teams who plagiarise my aborted collections. It’s rather similar to stealing a Picasso piece which Picasso himself does not like, or settling for a second-rate lover. All my collections are fantastic lovers, of course, yet I prefer to be incredibly fastidious with the collections I release. Some lovers are more Karl than others, hmm? And the Karl-lover is always better. Besides- if I released too many lover-collections upon the world, they would simply die of sexual ecstasy. Dead customers are deadbeats when it comes to paying their bills.
As you can see from the above paragraph, I’m rather brilliant. You’re probably awed, and your jaw has dropped so low that I must ask you to close it- drool is never chic. Imagine what you’re doing to my pages! It is a privilege to be reading this book, and you should thank your trust fund or whoever gives you money that has allowed you to afford this opportunity. You may never get to speak to me, but at least you can read my words.
This book- a guide to living, if you will- will be organised alphabetically. A, B, C, and so on, until we reach Z and as the children’s song goes, you may start all over again! Everything in here is my strict advice- it is no joke. If you follow these commandments, you will be living a far more chic life! You’ll never equate with I, of course, yet at least you will rise above those plebes not reading this book. Let us begin.
By Karl Lagerfeld.
One day, as I was taking off my quilted sleeping mask and ringing the bell beside my bed for my morning-butler, I felt an odd benevolent feeling surge within me. Non, it was not a surge- it was just a tickle. Now normally I equate “benevolence” with charitable old men, who are balding and senile. These old men probably are chairmen of a bank someplace, and they most likely have grandchildren whom they dote like a fashion designer dotes upon his mother. I do not have any grandchildren; banks bore me and I am most certainly not senile. Yet I felt slightly benevolent as I thought to myself: “I should write a book about how to live in a proper fashion.” Of course, this would mean helping people, as hardly anybody knows how to live these days. This itself led to a moral dilemma: do I really want to help people? Do they deserve my help, hmm? I debated this with myself for all of an hour, as I sketched out the latest Chanel collection. Yet this niggling charitable feeling simply would not go away, even as I practised my passive-aggressive face in the mirror. I pursed my lips, and eventually decided on a course of action. I would write this book, but only for the sake of posterity (like one might produce a great artwork, a great symphony or somesuch- I am writing this guide to living simply because it would be a crime not to.)
It is safe to assume that since you are reading this book you know who I am. On the chance that you’re some philistine who does not know who I am, some jam-brained sweat suit wearing fattie- well, just stop reading now. However, I’m going to introduce myself anyway. I did consider making one of my cohorts write an introduction- “Karl Lagerfeld is perhaps the most important fashion designer of the 20th and 21st centuries. Here is a man who is always relevant, who has produced more variations on the little black dress than Bach produced variations of the well tempered clavier…”- that sort of thing. I’d get someone people think of highly to write the introduction, whilst looking over their shoulder with a silver cane. Maybe Alber Elbaz, Anna Wintour- someone like that. In the end I couldn’t let somebody else write my introduction, I’m too selfish.
My name is Karl Lagerfeld (but you knew that, assuming you can read the front cover). I am the greatest fashion designer to ever walk this little planet- Chanel became a legend because of my designs, my genius. Before I came to Chanel, it was a near-comatose ugly stepsister, remembered by nobody. Coco Chanel was remembered primarily as the private call-girl to a Nazi and a decent businesswoman (I am not making this up, no joking here. You can look it all up if you don’t believe me). I revived Chanel solely through my own design genius. I also have designed almost every other collection worth noting, whether it is Comme des Garcons or Dior; every decent collection has been designed by me. Other designers put their names to these collections, yet I see the other “designers” scavenging around the bins outside my Parisian abode. They’re looking for the collections I’ve designed which are not good enough for me. Generally, they find them and take the sketches back to their teams who plagiarise my aborted collections. It’s rather similar to stealing a Picasso piece which Picasso himself does not like, or settling for a second-rate lover. All my collections are fantastic lovers, of course, yet I prefer to be incredibly fastidious with the collections I release. Some lovers are more Karl than others, hmm? And the Karl-lover is always better. Besides- if I released too many lover-collections upon the world, they would simply die of sexual ecstasy. Dead customers are deadbeats when it comes to paying their bills.
As you can see from the above paragraph, I’m rather brilliant. You’re probably awed, and your jaw has dropped so low that I must ask you to close it- drool is never chic. Imagine what you’re doing to my pages! It is a privilege to be reading this book, and you should thank your trust fund or whoever gives you money that has allowed you to afford this opportunity. You may never get to speak to me, but at least you can read my words.
This book- a guide to living, if you will- will be organised alphabetically. A, B, C, and so on, until we reach Z and as the children’s song goes, you may start all over again! Everything in here is my strict advice- it is no joke. If you follow these commandments, you will be living a far more chic life! You’ll never equate with I, of course, yet at least you will rise above those plebes not reading this book. Let us begin.
Monday, November 3, 2008
My Bookshop
Person: Karl, can could I please buy this book?
Karl: Hmm? You want to buy this book?
Person: Yes.
Karl: Get on the scales, then.
Person: What???
Karl: We need to see if your weight suits that book. Brad! Get the scales!
Person:..?!?
Karl: Just step over here. Hmm.
Person: Hmmm?
Karl: I'm the only one that does those "hmm?"'s, hmm?
Person: ...yes.
Karl: Just stand on the scales!
Person: ...
Karl: You are 50 kgs. That's pretty fat, for someone who wears Balenciaga!
Person: but?
Karl: No buts! Run! Run! Run!
Person: [starts running]
Karl: Why are you running around my bookshop, hmmm?
Person: You [puff] told me [puff] too!
Karl: Stop it! Let's weigh you.
Person: [steps on scales]
Karl: 49.99!
Person: Is it good enough?
Karl: Are your jeans skinny enough?
Person: Yes Karl! My jeans are skinny! My jeans are skinny!
Karl: Okay. 500 Pounds.
Person: The price says $40, and this is France so what you're doing charging in those amounts--
Karl: Do you weigh $40?
Person: I weigh 49.99...
Karl: KILOGRAMS. NOT DOLLARS.
Person: I suppose you're right, then.
Karl: $600 now.
Person: what th-?
Karl: You're wasting my time!
Mary-Kate Olsen: You don't have to be around people who waste your time, Karl.
Ashley Olsen: You can be with us.
Mary-Kate: I see you've got a daughter now.
Ashley: What about us.
Karl: SCALES! NOW! BOTH OF YOU! BRAD...DEAL WITH THIS FATTY.
Karl: Hmm? You want to buy this book?
Person: Yes.
Karl: Get on the scales, then.
Person: What???
Karl: We need to see if your weight suits that book. Brad! Get the scales!
Person:..?!?
Karl: Just step over here. Hmm.
Person: Hmmm?
Karl: I'm the only one that does those "hmm?"'s, hmm?
Person: ...yes.
Karl: Just stand on the scales!
Person: ...
Karl: You are 50 kgs. That's pretty fat, for someone who wears Balenciaga!
Person: but?
Karl: No buts! Run! Run! Run!
Person: [starts running]
Karl: Why are you running around my bookshop, hmmm?
Person: You [puff] told me [puff] too!
Karl: Stop it! Let's weigh you.
Person: [steps on scales]
Karl: 49.99!
Person: Is it good enough?
Karl: Are your jeans skinny enough?
Person: Yes Karl! My jeans are skinny! My jeans are skinny!
Karl: Okay. 500 Pounds.
Person: The price says $40, and this is France so what you're doing charging in those amounts--
Karl: Do you weigh $40?
Person: I weigh 49.99...
Karl: KILOGRAMS. NOT DOLLARS.
Person: I suppose you're right, then.
Karl: $600 now.
Person: what th-?
Karl: You're wasting my time!
Mary-Kate Olsen: You don't have to be around people who waste your time, Karl.
Ashley Olsen: You can be with us.
Mary-Kate: I see you've got a daughter now.
Ashley: What about us.
Karl: SCALES! NOW! BOTH OF YOU! BRAD...DEAL WITH THIS FATTY.
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