344. Trifling. (A three way fling?)

No, of course that's not the definition of trifling.

I'm nearly finished with American Vertigo, a book by Bernard-Henri Lévy. It's confirmed one thing I already knew about myself, I'm no intellectual. But that fact hasn't diminished my enjoyment of the book. Granted, I have to stop more often than I'd like to consult Wikipedia in order to refresh my memory about (or learn for the first time) the people and places referenced. That's not to say this is a first for me, but Lévy doesn't make me feel stupid for not knowing.

I don't find Lévy's writing style to be condescending towards us non-intellectuals and/or Americans, as I suspect many people do. He is French and an European intellectual. His sometimes quirky, but always thoughtful observations stimulate me. (I have a new celebrity crush!)




However...

I didn't come here to write a book review, but to share a blurb from the book. Other than being observational about Americans, it's a complete aside from the gist of the book, or better yet, it's theme footnote.

Without further adieu:

In front of me a couple of young people are arguing in low voices about the nature of their affair: Are they dating or are they in a relationship? If they are just dating, how serious is it? And isn't the fact that the boy didn't invite the girl to Thanksgiving dinner at his parents' house an obvious obstacle to its being a full-fledged relationship? It's certainly a mystery to me, since this most American notion of dating has no equivalent in French.... This very un-French way of turning the date itself, and later the relationship as such, into a separate entity, living its own life alongside the two lovers . . . The oddity, too, of the mania these lovers have for verbalizing, evaluating, codifying, and, when it comes down to it, ritualizing anything that might happen within the framework of their relationship. . . For the sake of a series of social gestures, which suddenly become nothing but gestures, that sense of the unexpected, the romantic, is lost, which in Europe even the most trifling love affairs preserve. . . . I observe all of this with infinite curiosity.

Isn't this observation (it may be faulty--isn't this what women from all cultures do?), this little aside, a great reminder to just relax and enjoy life, to let it naturally unfold?

And what a relief! Perhaps this condition of analyzing, compartmentalizing, scrutinizing isn't universal, and therefore, it can be eradicated.

It's completely doable. I am a superhero after all.

.