Monday, June 6, 2011


  Hello,  World.  This is my first blog.  

Hello to  your mitochondria, and centrioles and genomes,  and all those marvelous ecosystems that contain and define each of  us.   Hello to our  individual differentiations and speciations.  And by the way, do you know that each of us has a particular scent,  different from all the other billions of human ecosystems on this earth?  Some wayward  microbe, or strand of lost nucleic acid,  or wacky molecule of enzyme  leaves us each with a particular,  unique smell.  Or,  so they say.

And so I woke this morning wondering about the particular  smell  of V.S. Naipaul,  the Nobel Laureate who's being lambasted all over the media this week for ONCE AGAIN  letting loose with  misogynistic,  denigrating opinions about women writers,  living and dead.   Women writers are 'inferior,'  he says.  We  are  'sentimental.'   No  female writing  compares with his.  He says.  Not even Jane Austen.  Not even Nadine Gordimer.

Why is everyone  enraged?  This is his 'same ol same ol'  patter, his  worn out  song-and-dance on matters literary, as well as his categorical judgements on other races, other religions,   even other species.   Oh,  let him be.  Waste no more energy  denouncing  sad-eyed Naipaul.  Still, with all his exhalations and vituperations,  I wonder  what his particular  micro-smell is.  What odor of his is caroming around the room,  even  the planet,  exploding against  the molecules of other   human beings.  Suggesting perhaps a million micro mind-twitches.  (Oh dear,  is misogynism  contagious,  like a contact-high?)

Because Naipual is dapper in dress  and very much a Brit in spite of his Trinidadian-Indian origins,  a friends suggests that he might smell  of  Guerlain's English Leather,  with a touch of curry.  I think too obvious.  Another friend suggests decay.  She is sure that  behind his no-lip expression lurks bad teeth.   Someone  else  suggests  the smell of bitter lemons.  The caustic smell of lye.  Of carrion.   Even, flatulence.  But these are not cellular levels scents.  These are judgements.

Just now I am thinking of Naipaul and what i smell is ...nothing.  An existential smell.  Perhaps one only he can smell.  Essence of self-involvement.  A projection of  inner confidence and  complacency that makes him more attractive to himself.    "I opinionate,  therefore  I smell."

Thank you,  Mahalo!  Comments and opinions welcome!



  1. He smells a turd, one would assume.

  2. Er...right. Somewhere between flatulence and carrion. I say let him be. Too much media-energy wasted on a sad, myopic old man. And thank you, Ms. Dusky, of the provocative FIRST BIRTH MOTHER FORUM BLOG for commenting.

    Now lets move on to serious matters. Like writing, publishing, loving, living!! And helping each other.

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