from The House on Mango Street:
(sorry, really can't help myself)
"People who live on hills sleep so close to the stars they forget those of us who live too much on earth." (p. 86)
"In the movies there is always one with red red lips who is beautiful and cruel. She is the one who drives the men crazy and laughs them all away. Her power is her own. She will not give it away." (p. 89)
Showing posts with label The House on Mango Street. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The House on Mango Street. Show all posts
2008-01-09
2008-01-08
mamacita
I know, I know, I've said it before -- The House on Mango Street is gorgeous. I'll try not to gush like this about every single book given to me for Christmas by awesome people. Or would it be better if I did? Tough call....
But Sandra Cisneros tells her stories so simply, with short sentences and short vignettes you have to love. Apparently this book is used in classes, and I can totally see why -- I also think adults would really appreciate it, if you want an easy read that's still really good.
Anyway, one of my favourite stories is of Mamacita, whose husband saved and saved money driving taxis to bring her to the United States. And once she got there, to the largely Latino neighbourhood of families trying to find their place, she hated it. She cries and sighs and longs for home. She sings Spanish songs and refuses to learn English and, when anyone comes to her door, she yells only, "He not here," "No speak English," or "Holy smokes."
The story is really just two pages. But it's enough to make you cry.
"Cuando, cuando, cuando?" she asks.
"Ay, caray! We are home. This is home. Here I am and here I stay. Speak English. Speak English. Christ!"
"Ay!" Mamacita, who does not belong, every once in a while lets out a cry, hysterical, high, as if he had torn the only skinny thread that kept her alive, the only road out to that country.
And then to break her heart forever, the baby boy who has begun to talk, starts to sing the Pepsi commercial he heard on TV.
"No speak English," she says to the child who is singing in the language that sounds like tin. "No speak English, no speak English," and bubbles into tears. "No, no, no," as if she can't believe her ears. (p. 78)
[Off topic: For the record, I have high hopes for Canadian television this winter. This is going to sound all patriotic, but the good thing about the American writers' strike is that, if Canadian TV is good, people will turn to it.
Not if everything is Little Mosque on the Prairie, of course, because that show isn't bad but it's not awesome either. But new shows like The Secret Lives of Hockey Wives, or more interesting, jPod, could collect a big audience while Americans promote crappy reality shows like "Bachelor: Geeks Lose Weight" or whatever they plan next.
ANYWAY, I caught the end of jPod tonight, and while I was impressed by the twisty ending, which appeared to feature a group of illegal immigrants packed into a posh Vancouver apartment, I was not impressed by this scripted gem: "You hate metric, too?" "It's the worst."]
But Sandra Cisneros tells her stories so simply, with short sentences and short vignettes you have to love. Apparently this book is used in classes, and I can totally see why -- I also think adults would really appreciate it, if you want an easy read that's still really good.
Anyway, one of my favourite stories is of Mamacita, whose husband saved and saved money driving taxis to bring her to the United States. And once she got there, to the largely Latino neighbourhood of families trying to find their place, she hated it. She cries and sighs and longs for home. She sings Spanish songs and refuses to learn English and, when anyone comes to her door, she yells only, "He not here," "No speak English," or "Holy smokes."
The story is really just two pages. But it's enough to make you cry.
"Cuando, cuando, cuando?" she asks.
"Ay, caray! We are home. This is home. Here I am and here I stay. Speak English. Speak English. Christ!"
"Ay!" Mamacita, who does not belong, every once in a while lets out a cry, hysterical, high, as if he had torn the only skinny thread that kept her alive, the only road out to that country.
And then to break her heart forever, the baby boy who has begun to talk, starts to sing the Pepsi commercial he heard on TV.
"No speak English," she says to the child who is singing in the language that sounds like tin. "No speak English, no speak English," and bubbles into tears. "No, no, no," as if she can't believe her ears. (p. 78)
[Off topic: For the record, I have high hopes for Canadian television this winter. This is going to sound all patriotic, but the good thing about the American writers' strike is that, if Canadian TV is good, people will turn to it.
Not if everything is Little Mosque on the Prairie, of course, because that show isn't bad but it's not awesome either. But new shows like The Secret Lives of Hockey Wives, or more interesting, jPod, could collect a big audience while Americans promote crappy reality shows like "Bachelor: Geeks Lose Weight" or whatever they plan next.
ANYWAY, I caught the end of jPod tonight, and while I was impressed by the twisty ending, which appeared to feature a group of illegal immigrants packed into a posh Vancouver apartment, I was not impressed by this scripted gem: "You hate metric, too?" "It's the worst."]
2008-01-01
2008
So, I rang in the new year at work. Sad, eh? Feel free to feel sorry for me. But not too sorry. A couple friends visited me with coffee and conversation. And I did get to watch Edmonton's fireworks show -- the city's biggest ever, apparently -- live on Global.
Now I'm sipping Baileys and milk and watching When Harry Met Sally... for the second time in a week. (In my defence, I had a head cold all weekend, so I nursed myself with three Meg Ryan movies, including Sleepless in Seattle and You've Got Mail. As the years pass, it appears Ryan's forehead loses its ability to crinkle. Clearly a case of miraculous de-aging.)
(As I type this, it's the orgasm-in-a-deli scene! Woot!)
Anyway, it's time to set a resolution, but all I can think of is "do not lose my gloves this year" and "come up with better name for blog that doesn't steal directly from Tennyson." By the way, if anyone has help in these areas, for example one half of a set of black gloves or a good idea for a title, feel free to send'em along.
Now, some thoughts on books, since my Christmas break was spent in a zen-like state of relaxation at home, curled up reading.
Now I'm sipping Baileys and milk and watching When Harry Met Sally... for the second time in a week. (In my defence, I had a head cold all weekend, so I nursed myself with three Meg Ryan movies, including Sleepless in Seattle and You've Got Mail. As the years pass, it appears Ryan's forehead loses its ability to crinkle. Clearly a case of miraculous de-aging.)
(As I type this, it's the orgasm-in-a-deli scene! Woot!)
Anyway, it's time to set a resolution, but all I can think of is "do not lose my gloves this year" and "come up with better name for blog that doesn't steal directly from Tennyson." By the way, if anyone has help in these areas, for example one half of a set of black gloves or a good idea for a title, feel free to send'em along.
Now, some thoughts on books, since my Christmas break was spent in a zen-like state of relaxation at home, curled up reading.
- Wuthering Heights is quite good. In the end, I really enjoyed it and couldn't put it down. I still don't get why it's billed as one of the most romantic books ever, but there are two very likeable characters in it towards the end, and you do pull for them. Sidenote, one of my favourite lines in Bridget Jones's Diary is: "It struck me as pretty ridiculous to be called Mr. Darcy and to stand on your own looking snooty at a party. It's like being called Heathcliff and insisting on spending the entire evening in the garden, shouting 'Cathy' and banging your head against a tree." And now I love that line even more.
- When I think Douglas Coupland, the term "Gen X" pops into my head. Not sure if that's a compliment or not, it's just the first thing I think of. (And there's worse things than being associated with Generation X.) Anyway, I picked up my first Coupland novel, Hey Nostradamus! and it was fabulous. Starts out with a high school shooting in a Vancouver-area high school in the 80s, but more specifically it starts from the point of view of a girl stuck somewhere between life and heaven after she's been shot to death. From there, the book moves on to the life moments and narration of three other people connected, somehow, to the shooting. Amazingly, the book starts and ends on notes of hope. But the meat of it is somehow so disturbing and dire. And so well written. I think Coupland's one of my new favourite Canadian authors.
- I got piles and piles of good books from all the people I love in my life, and I'm so thankful to everyone for their kindness. One of the first books I've delved into is The House on Mango Street, courtesy of my brother and his partner. The vignettes are very, very short, and startling in their choppy prose -- absolutely perfect for taking on a plane, by the way. An example of the clear writing: "My great-grandmother. I would've liked to have known her, a wild horse of a woman, so wild she wouldn't marry. Until my great-grandfather threw a sack over her head and carried her off. Just like that, as if she were a fancy chandelier. That's the way he did it. And the story goes she never forgave him. She looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow. I wonder if she made the best with what she got or was she sorry because she couldn't be all the things she wanted to be. Esperanza. I have inherited her name, but I don't want to inherit her place by the window." (p. 11)
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