Bring it On

As I begin reading what is probably the most bizarre book yet (and trust me when I say I've read some pretty weird things), I find myself fascinated by nothing more and nothing less than its title.  Despite the fact that I'm barely beginning to grasp the idea explained by Bayard in the first chapters of How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read, I find myself thinking about the title and how I can relate to it. And here it is, the word that perfectly fits my necessities: Improvisation.

Improvisation is key to life. Or at least I've found it to be.

What do I do when a stranger comes up to me and sends their love and greetings to my mother?

I improvise. I smile and nod, reassuring them that I will and that I'm sure my mom will call them. But while that's my exterior, my interior is something more like this: 

Why is this stranger smiling at me? 

Oh no, he's approaching me now. 

He's waving. 

Am I about to be kidnapped?

Just go with the flow and smile back Barb. 

He probably knows your -- 

"Oh my God! How's Elisa doing? I haven't seen her in so long! You are so grown up! Are you the eldest? No, the middle one! Of course, of course. Well say hi to Diego as well, won't you? Right. Good to see you! Send them both my love!"

Notice how he doesn't mention his name? Normally they're so wrapped up in remembering, that they forget to remind me who they are. But I have no choice. For my parent's sake I have to improvise, otherwise my mother's fall from society will be on me, and God knows she will never let it go. 

If you ask me it's all about keeping up with appearances.

What do I do when everyone in the room read about the Philippines Typhon, while I was busy being an ignorant sloth?

I improvise. I nod when asked if I saw the pictures from El Tiempo. 

How about when I've been talking the whole time in Film Critique while supposed to be thinking about what I'll do for the next proyect and Cata puts me on the spot by asking me about it in front of everyone? 

I improvise. I blurt out and start talking about techniques and ideas that I think will impress her. Things that sound like they've been thought through meticoulously. I dig for the cinematic vocabulary I know, and I talk as if I've been waiting for this question since my birth.

Now the big question: why? Why go through all the trouble? Personally, because I don't want to immediately admit that I have no idea who you are, that I didn't even glance at El Tiempo on Sunday and that I didn't follow one simple instruction. I don't necessarily feel ashamed, but nevertheless obligated to do so out of pride. I'd rather improvise and attempt at making you think I have a great memory for faces, I read the news religiously and that I did you as you instructed.

If I have found improvisation to be a technique for the art of keeping up with appearances, will I find Bayard to think so as well? Will I find within How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read, that improvisation is key? Can this book become my manual of life? Because frankly, I won't deny that I enjoy improvising a teeny weeny bit. It's a test I'm willing to kick ass in, and what's more, rhetoric even plays its part. 

Strangers that aren't strangers: ethos. Act like you recognize them and reassure them of your good manners and excellent memory.

Pathetic ignorance: pathos. Just nod, frown and empathize you lazy pansy.

Suspicious vengeful Cata: logos. What's that angle Mr. Tangen said is the opposite of the wide angles' effects? Ah yes! Telephoto. 

Oh, Heart of Darkness? Of course Mr. Ferrebee, the irony is undeniably obvious. There's so many examples of it, I don't think it's fair to choose just one!
That's how I talk about books I haven't read. Pierre Bayard: bring it on and show me what you got.