the diving bell and the butterfly


When I have a bad day at work, I take my lunch break at the bookstore. I just found an extremely bourgie one on Prince St, with soft lighting and rocking chairs, though my favorite is still Strand. Miles and miles of books make me extremely happy. Rather than alone in my bedroom, I am out celebrating with a hundred of my dearest friends (the books, of course).

Picked up a copy of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, the memoirette by Jean-Dominique Bauby. Trapped in his body after a massive stroke, he wrote the entire book by blinking his left eyelid. Now, when I am feeling especially lazy or impotent, I think of him and draw courage.

The human mind in all its infinite possibilities. I think therefore I am, and all that.

In film school, my cinematography prof screened the opening of the film version, shot by Janusz Kaminski with a tilt-shift lens. How rare and utterly glorious to see a film adaptation rise to meet (and, maybe, exceed) the book form. I'll have to finish the book entirely before watching it again.

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