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    <name><![CDATA[Nora]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Portland, OR]]></location>        
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      <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>9</votes>
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  <read_at>Sat Mar 08 00:00:00 -0800 2008</read_at>
  <date_added>Sat Feb 23 11:52:50 -0800 2008</date_added>
  <date_updated>Sat Mar 08 01:23:24 -0800 2008</date_updated>
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    <body><![CDATA[Oh Tom Ripley... what to say that hasn't been said dozens of times already?  I clipped through the last pages at work tonite, hungry to know! desperate to hold hands with Tom Reeepley as he navigated his way through layer after layer of lie upon lie upon psychopathology!  I found myself irked at customers who disturbed my reading, mid-paragraph (inconsiderate indecisive patronizing people!  pick out your own damn flowers! take a chance for Christ's sake!  No, I don't know what white roses &quot;means&quot;- pick a damn meaning and be gone!) and also rather paranoid.  Every compliment or comment I recieved was questioned and then double questioned, as I toyed with the possibilities of varying double entendres and potential meanings as to my occupational/ social demise... what or how or why, I don't know.  But I felt edgy at work.  Like the day I first tried caffeine, twitchy.  Edgy.  Tom Reeeepley's mind is contagious I tell you.  I still feel guilty- though i don't have anything to feel shame or guilt for!  I am a New Englander, so, to a degree, feeling bad about all I am not doing all I could be etc is normal, but this?  This Ripley-brain is far more intense, much more visceral.  It makes my former Puritan guilt think look like moss beneath a flowering tree on the first day of spring.  <br/>On a sidenote, the afternoon I bought the book at Powells, (one of my rare excursions into the Gold Room) I shared the Mystery 'H' aisle with a sophisticated old woman, peach hair, nice slacks, matching shoes and sweater- very nice jacket.  Maybe it's because I'll be in Florida for a week soon, and I associate that state with old folks (mostly), that I couldn't help but dream, lust even, after a Patricia Highsmith mystery club with me and a handful of old ladies with peach and purple hairs and nice slacks and wide brimmed hats.... dreams.  At least mine don't involve murder and European identity swaps.  Or do they?!]]></body>
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