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336 pages, Paperback
First published April 30, 2008
[N]o theory that claims universal applicability is worth a damn. Here I take serious exception with Stanley Fish’s argument that “theories always work and they will always produce exactly the results they predict, results that will be immediately compelling to those for whom the theory’s assumptions and enabling principles are self-evident. Indeed, the trick would be to find a theory that didn’t work” (68). This statement, however amusing, encapsulates much of what is wrong with current “schools” of literary criticism. This observation may seem egregious, but it is essential when reading this book to know that its author does not necessarily believe in these structures. They are observations, not diktats, and they are powerful only to the degree that they remain arguable.
Below the waist, the crays’ armoured hindquarters were those of colossal rock lobsters: huge carapaces of gnarled shell and overlapping somites. Their human abdomens jutted out from above where the eyes and antennae would have been.
“When she was a small child, Cassie had discovered that she could heal little creatures that seemed sick”, while “Keiron had a gift too—not such a powerful one, but inexplicable nevertheless. From an early age he had learned that he could ‘speak’ to things in his head, they all had a voice in his head and would answer his questions if they had a mind to.”
“Thomas Barrick was thirteen years old. He had lived all his life in Thorpe and had never been any further than Whitby. His father had been lost at sea in a great storm when Thomas was seven years old”. His friend Kate, “always said that she feared nothing. She didn’t believe in ghosts, creatures of the night, or God himself. Her father had beaten all the belief from her. To her father she had to be the nearest thing to a son. The son who had died two years before she was born.”
His father, Monsieur Charles Denis Bartolome Bovary, retired assistant-surgeon-major, compromised about 1812 in certain conscription scandals, and forced at this time to leave the service, had taken advantage of his fine figure to get hold of a dowry of sixty thousand francs that offered in the person of a hosier’s daughter who had fallen in love with his good looks. A fine man, a great talker, making his spurs ring as he walked, wearing whiskers that ran into his moustache, his fingers always garnished with rings and dressed in loud colours, he had the dash of a military man with the easy go of a commercial traveller.
Once married, he lived for three or four years on his wife’s fortune, dining well, rising late, smoking long porcelain pipes, not coming in at night till after the theatre, and haunting cafes. The father-in-law died, leaving little; he was indignant at this, “went in for the business,” lost some money in it, then retired to the country, where he thought he would make money.
But, as he knew no more about farming than calico, as he rode his horses instead of sending them to plough, drank his cider in bottle instead of selling it in cask, ate the finest poultry in his farmyard, and greased his hunting-boots with the fat of his pigs, he was not long in finding out that he would do better to give up all speculation.