on vacation: had to take book back from flirty kid who thought that I was a kid but was ticked off by my not being a kid. Huh. Wasted wooing. Greateron vacation: had to take book back from flirty kid who thought that I was a kid but was ticked off by my not being a kid. Huh. Wasted wooing. Greater sorrows in life.....more
Good morning, Virginia Woolf. Will you kindly assist me in making the world go away? Let me indulge in the warm butter-yellow of the morning sun, exchGood morning, Virginia Woolf. Will you kindly assist me in making the world go away? Let me indulge in the warm butter-yellow of the morning sun, exchanging the low rumbling of my pervy neighbor's low rider for the mockingbirds up ahead? [Yes, that's much better. He's quite the squib isn't he?]
Yes, yes he is. But let's not talk about him. I want to be left fat and happy before breakfast on your misconstrued murmur. I was scarce two paragraphs in before my own cheeks were aglow with firey color, from laughter. It made me envy your studied willow trees, I missed my own hair hanging about my shoulders.
It would have provided a mask so I wouldn't have to explain my delight. So then I could continue to have you all to myself. Even the beadles that would be crunched underneath your feet. Your patience is admirable, how could they not see that! Being chased off a lawn as if you were a loitering animal, a wayward hound that scented something on the table promising only to swatted away.
TBC....few pages left and my hated life interrupts. Really?...more
Zitkala-Sa knows (knew if you really want to get literal) what she's doin'. The first trickster book I picked up was rather stark, and unloving in stoZitkala-Sa knows (knew if you really want to get literal) what she's doin'. The first trickster book I picked up was rather stark, and unloving in storytelling. If anything, it was jammed with information, narrative seemed to be going extinct (like Doritos seem to be on a Friday night).
I started with hair of all things. It's something I have been feeling guilty about, and what is left is just a symbol of an antagonistic rebellion (long story). But instead of death "taking" her hair, it was a pinch-faced white woman. The Bible says a woman's long hair is her glory, and a shorn head is symbolic of her shame. The Native Americans seem to take it a step further. Their hair is their soul, and the "civilization" tactics imposed crushed it. ...more
Those stars aren't going anywhere, anytime soon. The hard part is not wounding my literary pride. Sure it is..[slap]. And at one point in life yoYeah.
Those stars aren't going anywhere, anytime soon. The hard part is not wounding my literary pride. Sure it is..[slap]. And at one point in life you should think that you only have 99.8% other faults besides literary pride. There was not even a voiced term for it when I was growing up yonder (no, really. I just looked out the window and saw it). It was the log-pothole-peat bog you ignored before eating it three seconds later, and it was only supposed to wear one mask, not have a clown-face menagerie. It just wouldn't be fair to be full of it in topical segments.
Out of the (enter your opinion here) number of books published a day, nearly a quarter of them will be saying, Life's not fair, life's not fair, life's not fair (heyyy, I just liked the review of one the other day...a little cheese with that whine?). There is some real meat for a jingle biz here...
Ah, right. About the arrow in my side. Well. At one point or another our horomones fly off the handle, it seems the gates just comes plumb off the hinges. [cue cheesy horror flick] And I thought I wielded the humor and nasty wit of one Sylvia Plath, with perhaps an honest dosing of a more down to earth Agatha Christie (her pot I thought I could stir). reallllly now? Yes, really. I owe Virginia Woolf a chocolate box apology in efforts to seem cool(have you read? Oh, yes. Yes, I have actually. She's terribly blunt.) Letters to God Why couldn't I have known this sooner? Like, before I decided to have any whirlwind affairs in a dust bowl?
Just kidding, still a cossetted lump.
TBC in two days
Uppity fourteen-year old review:
I vehemently refuse to give my children a taste of the classics through a half-assed film version. I just refuse. The original stories are just too juicy to keep on the shelf as hibernating behemoths. Though there is the thing about cannibalism somewhere in there that just might give your child(ren) nightmares until they grow out of the nightlight as a safety blanket.
That of course calls into question the moral obligation on new parents shielding their chitlins from the sheer carnage of the world. And as off topic that may seem to people who are the Disney worshippers when it comes to the stories he portrayed, it really is not. I doubt there were a whole lot of parents when I was still a seedling who read their kids the original Hansel and Gretel. The Black Forest stories of Germany. Changelings. The real Snow White( funny how Germany keeps showing up here).
Right about when I was nine or so, I was 'illegally' wandering the children's shelves in a shady hometown library (I would love to say it has gotten better, but since they installed plump couches it has not) when I came across a pretty massive volume of fairy tales. At first, the connection was not made between the smattering of Disney takes on Anderson, and the Anderson. Imagine my shock at the "brutality" of this man's storytelling. I had been a cosseted lump this whole time and didn't even know how to compare myself to the other knowledged saplings. I was not ungrateful for the papoose I seemed to have been carried around in this whole time (or still am being held captive in it seems), but the burrow I had dwelt in seemed very small once I was done with that book of tales.
Sad to report it, but it got worse as I got older. Damn you authors, ye who fails to stop my latching on of thy works. McKinley did nothing, not a thing to stop me from becoming a leech in the fantasy section. Though I could have stopped myself from looking like an air-headed dunce who had no interest whatsoever in university forms and law, *laughs* I made myself a happily mule-headed literature prig.
I never thought of myself as a possible felon until I read Beauty and the Beast. I was reassured of such when I saw the movie. Disney might just be disillusionment masters, but I state for the record I might just kill for a room like that.
**spoiler alert** What haven't I thought? Was there ever such an imbecile? Getting stuck in the introductions, come on! WheredidIputthatstupidthesaurus**spoiler alert** What haven't I thought? Was there ever such an imbecile? Getting stuck in the introductions, come on! WheredidIputthatstupidthesaurus. Oh, jeez, people! What is it with the interlude of childhood? I know she didn't come from a peapod. Hmm, Clare old or not? Clare, is this some sort of hint of hip novelists of the seventies using last names when they are talking to subordinates? [Clare forgets Molly in her room] Yup, definitely a speaking-to-subordinates thing. I really shouldn't have gotten stuck in that intro!
How many of us really want to own up to being a mess after reading something. For my family, being a weepy boo-hoo signified that you were too weak for anything stronger than milk (and I like cow juice above whiskey, but that isn't the point). You'd be the one getting the porcupine orange at Christmas time instead of the wicked new set of blades.
I wept away two hours anyway.
In entering Molly Gibson's world you feel as if you are looking at Charlotte Bronte leftovers. Save for the omnipotent eye of course (I had an offending feeling that Bronte could never do that). I thought that Gaskell was making a mistake in beginning a book that yellered all hope of being a moving read with a childhood depiction. I lamented that this was no such case, this book was going to give me a real hard time. Or at least, a hard look at myself. PMS? Maybe. But I doubt it. 'Cause the chocolate Peepsters didn't help this time.
If you are not used to Gaskell's style of who is telling the story, then you might be get tortoise-flipped (I admit, she was beginning to run circles around me with sub plots). The crazy thing about this lady's sub plots is that each of them belongs to a singular character.
Each character that is introduced (save the petty town gossips, who are cute, but ninnies) has either a long story, or alterior motives, or both (Aiii!). The Hamley family nestled pretty firmly as a burr, the turmoil their family encounters throughout the book is so easy to relate to nowadays. Or perhaps it is just my phantasmal imaginings. I felt pre-warned though, by looking through the chapters, and knew where I would lose my composition.
When the story first begins, it's all ado about the eldest son, Osbourne. Teenage me was hollering, "FAKE AND GAY." Described, little Ozzy is a bit girly, admittedly. He has a pleasantness of face, and delicate bones. If it had not been for the movie and a Mr. Collins who I thought could never be such hot stuff, I found him out to be something along the lines of a Percy Shelley. Now THAT'S pixie, people.
His countenance seemed to echo the sensitive being that he was, and that his parents cossetted. I mean, he was the literary kid, and they put all their hope in that. Folks must have put more stake in being a qualifiable literary mind back then, because this was astounding to me. The younger boy, Roger, was made out to be an affable fellow, loveable enough, just not brilliant like Osbourne because he was built scientifically. I felt hazy, looking into this telescope. However diffidently these lads were treated by their parents, it seemed they loved each other equally (I can tell you if my parents prized my sister above me I would be hard pressed to give her most of my fellowship money. Hm, guts man).
This is constant, inequality, inferiority. It rings soundly throughout Hollingford (poor Pecksy/Flapsy), along with a whole trove of social issues, making it the opposite of an 'every day novel.' Of course, there is the hilarity of the rife between Molly, her step-momma, and Cynthia and Mr. Gibson. The first pair of contenders face off on the matter of insensitivity, the latter, oh would you look at that! The same flipping thing. Cynthia, I think, will always embody that kind of woman that's always irritated the rest of the lovely females. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS.
It seems to be all these chickies think about, and score. TBC ...more
Postscript prior- First YA author I read whose name was longer than her novels title who also wasted seven full hours of my life. Sort of. I liked reaPostscript prior- First YA author I read whose name was longer than her novels title who also wasted seven full hours of my life. Sort of. I liked reading about fictional b***ches too much to stop.
I am beginning to think that there was something in what my mother told me years ago, amongst other issues like boys, romance, sex, and unmentionables. I'm going to leave the postscript prior, but only in effort to remember what I used to be like when I was young. I thought Laurie was a little dismissive in Speak, and that ruffled my thirteen year old feathers. Some things are better translated with age.
I know this.
As globby as the translation is, I know this non-existing (but I also know that any book that takes me an honest-to-God 40 minutes to read is not truly worthy of more than two stars). It was the subject that was jarring for me. Now, don't get too excited. There ain't no real skeletons in this closet. But just a week after I picked up this book I recieved some "neighbors." Sure. If that's what you want to call them. We'll just call them pimpled perverts (hey, life is what you make of it).
Melinda did not make the topic of rape as sordid as she could have, or woo us with her surreal language. But the dryness of the voice, I will admit, definitely was used appropriately. From my 12 yr. perspective anyway. I can remember being that caustic, and unfortunately, I can also remember why. But what was so scary, even above the somewhat sniffley-sniffles, was how close this topic hits home. Once, in the span of three months four girls in my neighboring communities disappeared. The authorities found three. All of them had been robbed of the one thing that girls should have the choice to give away.
The difference was that one made the decision to speak up, and not sew up her only path to healing. ...more
One picture, one message: slurries the thinking. This was a bit of a stomach slosher for me. I felt that the characters**spoiler alert** [image error]
One picture, one message: slurries the thinking. This was a bit of a stomach slosher for me. I felt that the characters were running around with dialogue swathed in "Where art thou Romeo!" clothing. V. disturbing. But so are my mental images, hence the viewing block. ...more
Percy Bysshe Shelley~~Rebel Against Reality~~418 Rebel against reality indeed! Oh, I love you Harriet. Just pretend to be my sister and let me muck aboPercy Bysshe Shelley~~Rebel Against Reality~~418 Rebel against reality indeed! Oh, I love you Harriet. Just pretend to be my sister and let me muck about with Mary. Yeah, let's call it good. I'd be calling it quits! By gum, I'm surprised she didn't do him in at that point, pixie charm or not. Perhaps it is because I am no poetic spirit, but that just rubbed me the wrong way. However, this was the first chapter I gravitated to, so it was my own fault my innocence was poisoned. But in reading Mary Shelley by Miranda Seymour I was most curious about this Percy with the weird-as-anything middle name. I loved the middle name, so I kept it for my own little boy. But reading about his conduct, I am starting to wonder if it's such a fabulous idea. Hey, the catholic in-laws might find out!
John Keats~~"Oh, Weep For Adonais"~~444 Since reading his simple statement about a piece of fruit he was eating, I have been smitten forevermore (see review on Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader). And this from a classically-deprived stable boy. Well, near stable boy. But he was born in one! He had the god's ear, but he couldn't have been more lowly in birth in all England's eyes. And so he should be, until about a few decades after his death.
The swift loss of temper I already knew of. Made him all the sweeter to read, really. Effeminate, yet not so, I am sure his face lost all 'delicacy' of form when he was pissed off. And along with his already rooted interest in the glamour of words, his passion went un-noted. And the discovery period was touching, when he found great books: Ovid, Bunyan, Virgil. How easily I can relate there (Ovid and Virgil accepted, of course).
And on this bio goes, and the more bittersweet it becomes, the less likely I feel I should be able to abandon my newfound love for poetry and food writing. Darn these Englishmen all to heck! I'll be the hardest thing to marry off yet.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning~~Victorian Love Story~~478 Eh. Long life might be desirable for most, but in poets, it's just not as interesting. But my Browing-curiosity was piqued some time back, but a late 80's novel called Lady's Maid. I need to return there, and this bio makes me most anxious.
In the Browning's time, England was sick, and in dire need of some serious change (wait, Marx was a Jew??? Wha--?). So along came some soulfulls (what a surprise) to make some chimichangas of the peace. And upon finding "Cry of the Children" it seems they pretty much went and made the whole enchilada. And of course science had to get a few punches in, Darwin rolls over the theo-ortho sun with a few storm clouds, and it was sheer pandemonium (makes one wonder about apes). It's so wonderous, the effects of literature and new discovery, on society. In this instance, they were beginning to rethink the basis of morals. Nice going Brontes. You've un-enslaved the mass mind. Or have they? I haven't been struck by lightning just yet. John Milton~~Blind Visionary~~170
William Shakespeare~~Nature's Mirror~~75 The only 'William' that has never driven me plumb irate. Yet, the only famous William we will never really know a whole lot about. And unfortunately, watching Shakespeare in Love ain't going to help us much. Too bad. That guy was pretty suave. My thoughts on this monumental visionary are not few, I still have a lot to read from his pen, but I think Coleridge sums him up very nicely: Charming you to gaze upon the movements of Venus and Adonis as you would the twinkling dances of the vernal butterflies. Yes, that does very nicely.
Nineteenth Century Lights and Shadows~~503 Tennyson~Emily Bronte~Christina Rossetti~Thomas Hardy Well arn't these the ideal troupe. I heard "In Memorium" in a not so flavorful way. To have it straight up cold from the bottle is a arrow to the side. As before stated: too young is to invite tedium, to be older is to be struck at with a lancet clear.
Emily, Emily, Emily, Emily. Vivified little monster. I am in awe of her father's longevity. Whereas I am no as such in the case of the named author. If it was true that they found letters of malicious critique of Wuthering Heights in her writing desk upon her death, well, then, we have no reason to wonder why she didn't hang around to bother Charlotte longer. And since it was also said that Emily made up Gondal, I probably side with her the most out of the sisters. Even though Charlotte did have a better head for the inviting the readers, she could have done with a little more passion and not as much fidget. But I'm talking just a smidgen here. It's like baking, I think. Too much, and the reader won't really rise to the challenge of taking you on. A fearsome woman. I should be glad never to meet the creature, my tongue would be made of wood.
What a strange little woman, so hidden away in my Immortal Poems copy. It was quite a time before I discovered her genius. It is daunting the way the most probing personalities seem to know you better than you yourself. And judging by the courtship passages, might it not be safe to say Rossetti thought this? Goblin Market: must read.
Hardy is best left alone except in silence. I was a little scarred by some of his stuff as a kid, nearly beaten for laughing at a then racy poem.
The New World~~538 Ralph Waldo Emerson~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~ I like this Untermeyer guy. I should invite him over for some tea. I think he'd like my orange-sage scones. Very much tempted into going into a prolonged rant about the evil deeds of textbooks, my anger was abated by a few simple lines: A Boy's will is the wind's will. And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.
Of course that was followed by an entire paragraph on his truly Puritan family (laughs). And onto his marrying a wife made of glass, and then perhaps the notion of marital deterioration. What is it with all these poets, novelists, and one president anyway? Is fate truly so cruel? If I were to be blunt about housekeeping I would say keep your candles away if you don't want to be crisper than you were before (in which case he lost his wife, a terrible blow). But Hiawatha?? Confound my ignorance! I have read that poem every other year, and I didn't know who the author was until just last night.
The Soul Selects~~578~~Emily Dickinson [I was indeed selective in what I wanted to blab about in this section. But hey, it's the 'puritan' spitfire. Who could resist?] I believe it is a remembrance quite common when one discovered Emily Dickenson. I was 10. And from the first poem, something about a train I believe, I was hooked into coming back for answers to modern questions, how to deal with pain, and what I might expect of joy. Though I shouldn't put too much stock in mere human words, Dickenson was as unearthly a thing as we shall ever come into 'contact' with.
[And in my search of the word immured (cooped up) I was delighted to find what the band called Incubus was all about anyway. Apparently they might be demons]
To be frank, my truly puritanistic ancestors treaded through Cotton Mather, but could never make it halfway to decent fun: poetry. They abhorred the darn literary vein, they could scarcely touch Milton for all his religious trappings and so-have-yous. So it was no small surprise that my aunt got a little fidgety upon my reliquishing a copy of her poems (complete nonetheless) from my pack. Extreme displeasure really.
But it is easy to ignore when you have the caged bird poet sitting right in front of you. There is no better place to traverse than into another's "domain" that mirrors yours.
Put Off -noun 1....also, set aside. to put out of the way; place to one side: Put aside your books and come for a walk.
This book has always put me inPut Off -noun 1....also, set aside. to put out of the way; place to one side: Put aside your books and come for a walk.
This book has always put me in such a...well. One thing before I start on my before review..who says I cannot walk and read? 6 miles a day, every day. Hah!
This book has always put me in such a tremor since the day I encountered this gothic Yahoo, this towering Hun (yes, they all mean the same thing in the Thesarus). There is no other dead white male who bothers to cool my coffee right quick (okay, it's an exaggeration, Milton makes me squirm too). But in the event of one close patron's death, I decided to honor them with putting myself to the task. The task.
What my purpose of getting a dual copy when I only managed to read one, and knew ahead of time I would only read one, is beyond me. But I can say this: I owe Charles Dicken a fervent and eternal apology. And also to my friend who I am most certain didn't go up there so she is more than happy to meet me down there. Demned 'ooligan.
For as long as I have avoided Dickens, you'd think I'd like him more. Or at least, more than I think I do at the moment. I grew up hating this guy. And hate is not a strong enough word, it's used way too much. I was venemous towards Two Cities and little Ollie. First time I took pleasure in bad mouthing a made-up person.
Dickens loped along the to-read list with Dee Brown, William Shakespeare, Anton Chekov (who I will most likely sink my teeth into next), and Elizabeth Gaskell. And, as I quite spiritually found, that was a good thing. It was the plainest thing: I should have waited. From all my bookish friends, I have not heard that. But then, they don't remember half the character quirks or memorable dialogue either.
There are certain books that must wait upon our shelves until we are older. Some, when we are MUCH older. Trying to conquer Great Expectations at 11 was not a fabulous idea. It was just pretentiousness.
So, Great Expectations..and part of Two Cities (aye, poetic souls in authordom spit fire at me). I do believe I have yet to suck out all the poison in my snake bite. Pip, to me, is indestructibly cute. Couldn't find a better word for the little scrapper. His voice charms one, I think, though the beginning was droll. ooh, poor me. My sister the BMW gives licks much oh, much too sharp. Or something of that rot.
Further down the supposedly straight path: Pip gets in some more trouble, there's mist, a creepy lady of gentle-lady upbringing, and her beastly little ward. Admittance: I'm not much of a fighter. More of a runner. But I felt there should have been some root pulling going on here. I was pretty well dazzled by Dickensian language. I was hoping to be, as famous as his style made him. But the four stars was really for Tale of Two Cities, which I won't be able to finish in this edition, but I have a scrappy hardback that will soon assuage my fretting. Hopefully. ...more
No, it's definitely not that story specifically that's the draw. It's the spying factor, scoping out the rotten apples. By gum, there is more than I imagined. Well, I was already on to what this guy was gutsy enough to actually write on a blog.
What great pleasure I derive from now being able to catch the english language pilferers before I get garroted, it's precious time saved for the good stuff. The good kind of heart-ripping truth. Like...Proust.
Ticket for easy interpretation- Admission One
In mia familia, course plots was dreaded drivel. Characters without character got the sack. So if one of us wanted to pick up a Koontz, Harris, or King then we were SOL for a ride back home. Reading was a family affair (was as in the loss of literary drive via loss of childhood. No excuse, but there you have it).
No one was going to back me up in any pursuit of dysfunctional vampires, female outcast protagonists who seemed to have nothing better to do than whine, manical teenage protagonists, clique-chicks, my-boyfriend-turned-into-a-zombie-and-I've-got-to-slay-him.
Ah, the strawberry wine under a summer moon that is an angsty, teenager-dom. And as I navigated my morning miles with Marcel, I fully felt the seductiveness that is social-literary martyrdom. To quote from memory some horrific experiences as a kid when I "stopped" reading trash would be a big fat stretch. But in some corners of the globe, there are some instances where a kid just can't talk books with their friends anymore. M. over there was reading Sara Shepard. I was reading the Complete Emily Dickenson.
It was just a blackberry hill to toss myself down is all. And Monsieur Proust brought that back to me, but in a revelation, not a demnation. And this man touched me with his scenery. I could have sworn that he was not reading a book about a crusade, but about African beetles, and in quick succession, poisonous snakes of Australia. Charm-the-pants-off woodcuts danced across my pages, slow afternoon light doused the floors and walls behind me as my cherub fingers tried to hold the succulent pear away from the page but close to my searching (and missing) mouth.
I was not to be pulled away, fiction or non-fiction. This was an absolute necessity. My sister had her stinging cuts, band-aids, and sand-pit fights. I had my sword to lift to a wyrm's gut, a field that needed tilling, a lynching to prevent. Young, so very young, Proust knew this. And he sprinted with it. ...more